


too close for comfort now

by myeyesarenotblue



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drug Use, Gen, Ghost Luther, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Luther dies instead of becoming a monkey man, Luther-centric, Mild Gore, no beta we die like ben
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:56:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myeyesarenotblue/pseuds/myeyesarenotblue
Summary: “Dad!”Nothing.“Dad, please, I’m scared!”Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.Luther raises a hand tentatively, brings it to rest against Reginald’s shoulder- his hand goes through him. Shimmers bright blue for the briefest of seconds, sending a weird tingling feeling through his body. Luther pulls it away quickly, as if it burned.Reginald doesn’t look up.Maybe Luther's dead.





	1. You killed me

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what this is, just go with it

There’s a biochemical substance, unknown, but dangerous, especially in the wrong hands. 

Luther needs to deal with the threat. 

How hard can it be? 

* 

Very hard. 

Harder than it should’ve been. 

* 

Luther _screams_. 

He’s never been one to react so outwardly to pain, to hurt, to any kind of sting, or ache, or burn, or throb. No, he’s never- 

He’s never made a peep, not when he was six and dislocated his shoulder trying to lift something heavier than himself for the very first time, not when he was twelve and Diego knocked out two of his teeth during sparring, not when he was fifteen and walked into a burning building to get civilians out, _not when, not when, not when-_

The scream gets ripped out of his throat. 

It’s animalistic, and wild, unmanaged and careless. Luther almost doesn’t understand he’s the one making that horrid, loud noise, but he is, he is. 

He is. 

He screams as someone throws a giant container of that biochemical thing right at him. He screams as he trashes on the floor, helplessly trying to yank his soaked uniform off of his body. He screams when he fails. He screams when someone loads him in an ambulance. He screams when he arrives home. He screams when- 

“Hurry!” Dad says, pushing his stretcher into the infirmary. “Let’s get him inside” 

Luther thinks he might be losing himself, losing his mind. 

He can’t feel, he can’t think, he can’t hurt. 

“Get that gear off him!” 

For the longest minutes, hours, days- who the hell knows, for the longest time, his world was made out of pain, of hurt, of burn, of _scalding hot suffering-_

He can’t feel anything, anymore. 

Grace’s heels are clicking, and her cool hands are brushing against Luther’s chest, unbuckling the stretcher’s restrains. Luther fights to open his eyes, lifting his head up as high as his neck will take it- her bright blonde hair swims across his vision, soft and pretty. 

Very pretty. 

Luther thinks he might be losing himself. 

His neck bobs down, and he lets it, closing his eyes back up again. It’s better that way, so he doesn’t have to see the red sea of scarring and blood that his chest has become. 

“Paddles!” Dad’s barking out. “Quickly!” 

More of Grace’s anxious footsteps. Then a soft whirring sound, and then- 

_Buzz!_

Luther’s body jostles, jumps upwards with the shock, the electricity. It trembles, and quivers, and burns once again. Luther can’t feel it. 

He can’t feel a damn thing. 

Shouldn’t he be able to feel it? 

“Again” 

More whirring- 

_Buzz!_

Luther’s body jostles. 

He can’t feel it. 

Dad presses his fingers against Luther’s neck, looking, searching for a pulse. Luther can’t feel it. He can’t feel it, but still he waits, he waits patiently for Dad to find his pulse, to announce _it’s weak but steady, it’s weak but steady-_

But then, “Damnit” 

Silence. 

Long, painstakingly long silence. 

“Bring me the serum” Dad says, spits out. “Pogo-” 

Rustling, muted footsteps. The sound of a syringe being uncapped. 

A needle goes into Luther’s chest. 

He can’t feel it. 

He can feel it, though, when the liquid- _the serum_ spreads, dancing through his bloodstream, burning through his burns, claiming every part of him for itself. 

It feels wrong. Very, very wrong. 

Luther thinks his body might be rejecting it, fighting to stay as human as it can, seizing, burning, screaming, shaking- 

“Damnit-” Dad’s yelling. “ _Grace!”_

He’s holding onto Luther’s shoulders harshly, trying to keep him flat on the stretcher- pushing down on him with all of his strength. But it’s not enough, it’s not enough- Luther’s seizing with wild, savage movements, leaving his body to trash and jerk, wrench. 

Grace’s doing something, injecting this and that into Luther’s veins, _but he can’t feel it, he can’t feel it, he can’t feel it-_

His body stops seizing. 

Dad lets go of him. 

Good. 

Luther tells himself to relax, just relax, let go. 

He’ll be fine! Completely fine! Dad will take care of him, Grace will take care of him, Pogo will take care of him, he’ll be fine! He’ll be a hundred percent, completely fine! Serum or no serum. 

Dad huffs out an annoyed breath. “Pogo, write a report. Detailed, don’t spare anything” 

A beat, “Yes, sir” 

The sound of Dad’s gloves being taken off with harsh movements, the latex slapping his skin. Then his scrubs, then his cap. “The serum wasn’t ready to be used” he hisses. “We’ll need to work on that, Pogo” 

A beat, “Of course, sir” 

Silence. Footsteps. 

The infirmary’s door being opened. 

“Sir?” Grace asks, softly, almost shyly. “What should I do with-?” 

She trails off. Odd. 

“I don’t care” Dad replies, coldly. “He’s dead, and we know what killed him. Just stash him in the morgue until further notice” 

More footsteps. He leaves. 

Luther opens his eyes. 

He’s not dead. 

He’s not- 

He sits up abruptly, quickly. He climbs off the stretcher as fast as he can, barely registering the fact that he can’t- he can’t feel anything, anything at all- not the open wounds on his chest, not the still bleeding track marks from the needles, not the whatever-it-is the serum did to his body. 

He can’t feel anything. 

Luther looks up, disoriented. He looks up towards the steady _click, click, click_ of Grace’s heels, her beautiful, mournful face- she's looking down, expressionless, not even her ever-present empty smile on place. “Grace?” Luther asks, because he doesn’t like to see her like that. 

Grace doesn’t look up, doesn’t react in any way. 

“Grace, are you ok?” 

Nothing. 

Luther takes a shaky breath in. “Grace, just-?” 

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

Luther looks down towards her hands. Luther regrets looking down towards her hands. She’s working steadily, wetting a piece of bloodied cloth again and again, rubbing it softly, carefully, rubbing it over- rubbing it over- 

Over him. 

Over Luther. 

Over Luther’s face, over Luther’s chest, over his dirty forehead, and his arms, his hands. Him. His body. 

But it’s no him. 

Luther’s not the one lying on that stretcher. 

He’s not. 

That’s not him, he’s standing up right next to her! 

“Grace-” Luther chokes out, walking backwards and away from that mangled body, that charred piece of lifeless meat. That’s not him, he’s not the one lying on that stretcher. 

He’s not. 

Luther whimpers. 

He’s not dead. 

Luther bolts. He doesn’t care to look back. He runs, and runs, walks out of the infirmary’s open door, running and running, unseeing. The hallways feel open and empty, lifeless, the colors muted. There are shapes lurking around the corners, tall and dark and nerve-racking, bloodied- 

There are ghosts. 

Luther runs. 

“Another Hargreeves-?” a ghost with _something_ impaled in its forehead says, sneering, laughing, screaming, pointing its chubby fingers at him. It laughs cruelly. “And it’s Number One?” 

Luther whimpers, steps backwards and away from it. 

But there’s another ghost behind him. A rotten thing with a twisted neck and a long navy skirt, maybe an old nanny, dead and forgotten in the house. “I never liked Number One” it’s saying. “He thinks he’s so special. He’s not” 

“He’s fresh meat, that’s what he is” another one says, holding a mangled mess that might just be intestines tight into its body. “We ought to show him a nice welcome” 

It advances towards Luther, a frailly thin hand outstretched in his direction. It's sneering and laughing, and its hand is damp with blood and pieces of insides and Luther tries to bolt but he’s cornered by them, scared out of his mind. The ghost touches his cheek, and Luther can feel it. Cold, and unforgiving, wrong. So very wrong. 

_“P- please, please-”_ he’s saying, begging, he thinks he might be crying, too. _“Please”_

The ghosts are laughing. 

Laughing at him, at his pain. 

“C’mon, give the boy a break” another ghost says, and Luther could cry, could kiss its blue and cracked lips, its hand-shaped bruises. The ghosts part to let this one come closer and Luther can’t help it, he can’t help it- he cries. Long ugly sobs, tears wild and unabashed. 

He cries. 

The ghost with the blue lips gives him a pitying look and Luther could kiss it, except its smile turns into a sneer, a wide, terrifying thing. “That’s right- cry now, Number One. There’ll be time for welcomes later” 

Luther cries. 

Someone else walks by. 

“Dad!” Luther chokes out, through his tears. He pushes through the ghosts unthinkingly, uncaring of brushing his shoulders against their freezing cold skins. _Because there he is, there he is!_ “Dad, wait up!” 

Dad’s walking by, looking down to a random piece of paper, notes about something Luther doesn’t care to find out. He’s trailing by slowly, and Luther hurries to walk right next to him. 

“Dad, sir” Luther cries, feeling like he can finally breathe out. 

He’ll be fine now. Dad will know what to do. 

Dad can explain what’s going on, tell Luther he’s not dead, tell Luther those angry ghosts are just in his head, tell Luther to get a grip on himself. “I don’t know what’s happening” Luther begs. “Please, sir” 

Dad doesn’t look up from his papers. 

He keeps walking on, head bowed down. 

He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s reading, that must be it. 

“Dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but- _please_ ” Luther babbles, picking up his speed when Dad does. “Please, it won’t happen again, but I’m- I’m scared, please” 

Dad doesn’t look up. 

_“Dad!”_

Nothing. 

_“Dad, please, I’m scared!”_

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

Luther raises a hand tentatively, brings it to rest against Dad’s shoulder- 

His hand goes through him. Shimmers bright blue for the briefest of seconds, sending a weird tingling feeling through his body. Luther pulls it away quickly, as if it burned, but it doesn’t. 

Dad doesn’t look up. 

Maybe he’s dead. 

Luther screams. 

* 

Luther wanders through the mansion for the longest time, hours maybe. Avoiding the ghosts, and avoiding the infirmary, and avoiding the morgue. 

He finds Pogo in the kitchen table, hunched over a notebook, writing that damned report about- about Luther’s death. He looks sad, so very sad, not even attempting to hide the thin trail of tears wetting his fur. He taps at them with a handkerchief every now and then. 

“I’m right here, Pogo” Luther tells him, tiredly. 

Pogo doesn’t react. 

It hurts. 

Luther ends up in his bedroom, holed up and staring lifelessly at his pictures of the universe, his models of the most modern spacecrafts. He realizes, dazedly, crazed, that he’s never going to get to see the space, the moon, the stars, the planets. 

It hurts. 

Grace appears at his door after a while, her head cocked to the side with a wistful expression. She’s holding on to his blood splattered domino mask, holding it so tightly it might break. She walks in slowly, puts it over Luther’s pillow with a calculated movement. 

“Oh, Luther,” Grace half-whispers to herself, after. “My sweet boy” 

Luther sucks in a breath, tells himself not to cry. He’s cried enough already. “I’m- I’m right here, Mom” 

Grace doesn’t react. 

They stand together, staring at Luther’s pictures and half assembled toys. Grace doesn’t know he’s here, doesn’t know Luther did think of her as a person, and he did, he did, even when he treated her more like a machine, sometimes. She’ll never know. 

It hurts. 

Luther wanders into Dad’s bedroom sometime after, after he’s tired of staring at his crushed hopes and dreams. The room’s empty, he’s not there- so Luther wanders into his office instead, because he’s gotta be busy with a thousand things, writing obituaries and changing wills, figuring out how to break it to the press without ruining what’s left of the academy’s reputation. 

Dad’s there, sitting on his leather chair, scribbling into a notebook. It’s the red one, the one with his carved initials that he always fought tooth and nail to keep hidden, to make sure none of them got to it, not his siblings, not Luther. 

Luther always did wonder what was written in there, and he wonders now, what it is that Dad’s writing about him. Because it’s gotta be more like a journal, than anything else. 

“Dad, what-?” Luther asks, chewing the inside of his cheek. “What are you doing? What are you writing?” 

Dad doesn’t react. 

He keeps scribbling, writing rapidly and without a pause. 

Luther wonders- 

What’s the shame in looking, if he’s dead now, he’s dead now and there’s no one to share the red notebook’s secrets with? There’s no one, just him. 

Luther wonders- 

He steps around the desk slowly, goes to stand behind Dad’s back and crunches down until he can just barely make out the sloppy cursive, the mysterious words. 

He starts at the top of the page, reading the day’s date, the hour, the time. His number. And then- 

_Number One’s mission was unsuccessful._

_The police force has retrieved the biochemical weapon, but they were too late to reach the boy. He was already deceased when he was brought to mine and Grace’s care and any attempts at reviving him were futile. The serum too, proved to be useless._

_Number One has passed away._

A journal then, just like Luther guessed. None of the specifics about Luther’s mission or- or death, just the basics, the rundown. Enough for Dad to gather his thoughts and plaster down any opinions he might have on whatever matter he’s writing about. 

He wants to know how Dad feels, after this. 

He wants to know. 

Luther keeps reading. 

_Number One has passed away._

_No great loss, would’ve been rendered useless after the serum, anyway. Won’t be missed, his naïve and eager to please nature was going to be the death of him._

“What?” Luther squeaks out, straightening up so quickly he would’ve gotten whiplash if he had had the neck of a living person. 

_No great loss._

_Won’t be missed._

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Dad scribbles on, completely oblivious to Luther’s words, Luther’s raising panic and hurt, betrayal. He keeps writing, and Luther doesn’t want to read anymore, doesn’t want to know how Dad feels after all. 

_No great loss._

_Won’t be missed._

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Luther steps away from the desk, pulls at his hair. 

He’s breathing shallowly, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. His siblings, Allison- Allison always said Dad didn’t really love them, no tough love, no emotional distance, just plain indifference towards them, their lives, their deaths, their disappearances. And yeah, yeah, maybe Dad didn’t file a missing person report on Five until a little after a week after he was gone, and maybe he only gave them a full three days to mourn Ben before announcing they should go back to schedule, but. 

But. 

_No great loss._

_Won’t be missed._

Luther screams. He screams and he cries for the thousandth time, but this time he doesn’t feel confused, or panicked, or scared, this time he feels _angry._

So, so angry. 

Would’ve Five been found if the missing person report was filed sooner? Would’ve Luther’s siblings- would’ve Allison not have left when she did if they had had time to properly process what happened to Ben? Would’ve Ben- 

Would he- 

“You killed them!” Luther yells, stand right in front of Reginald’s desk. “You killed me!” 

Reginald doesn’t react. 

Luther screams, tries to punch Reginald’s desk, tries to yank his stupid red notebook right out of his hands, but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t! His hands go right through the desk, right through the notebook. 

He’s dead. 

Luther is dead. 

He’ll never talk to another living person again, not Reginald, not Pogo, not Mom, not Allison, not Diego, not Vanya, not- 

_Klaus._

_Klaus! Klaus! Klaus!_

How did Luther forget about Klaus? 

He doesn’t have to be alone, doesn’t have to wander the academy’s halls, screaming his regrets at a father who never loved him, never pretended to love him- 

He can find Klaus. 

He _needs_ to find Klaus. 

It doesn’t matter if he’s so high out of his mind he can’t see Luther, it doesn’t matter, Luther will stalk him, silently follow him for days, for weeks, for months if he has to- he'll follow him until he catches his brother awake and sober and willing to talk. 

Yes, he’ll do it. 

He needs to find Klaus. 


	2. Bullshit

Luther hates being outside. 

He hates that it took him dying to go outside, took him desperation and maddening despair to even consider walking out the door and seeing what’s beyond the academy’s walls. He had never, not even once, gone out just for the sake of going out- 

Diego and Allison and Vanya and Klaus, they all told him he had to get out of his bubble, step out of the door and see for himself what’s out there, and Luther always lived with a nagging feeling on the back of his head that he should listen. Because anything has to be better than pacing the academy’s halls by himself all over and over and over again, right? Just- anything, absolutely anything at all, right? 

Wrong. 

Luther would give anything to be pacing the academy’s halls by himself all over and over and over again right now, oblivious and contempt, alive. But instead he’s wandering aimlessly through the city’s streets, visiting every bar, and disco, and dance club, every crack house and whore house and everything in between. He doesn’t know where Klaus is. 

Luther is tired but he can’t sleep, he’s hungry but he can't eat, he’s thirsty but he can’t drink. He’s getting desperate, a little more maddened and crazed every time he bumps into someone and expects to feel their skin but only feels fizzling electricity, a little more terrified and out of his mind every time he bumps into someone and does feel their skin, soaking wet with blood, purple and blue and decaying and old- dead, just like him. 

Luther is tired. 

He stumbles into a random alleyway, stepping into the shadows and shallow shelter of an overflowing dumpster, filled to the brim with trash and rotten things. It’s awful, looks awful and probably smells worse, but it’s dark and quiet and Luther’s tired. He’s almost glad he can’t smell anything. 

Luther plops down on the floor, resting against a side of the dumpster while hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in them. 

He’s never going to find Klaus. 

Never. 

Never, never, never, never. 

What if- 

What if Luther never speaks to another living person again and ends up losing his mind, turning into one of those ghosts that lurk around the academy? What if Luther never finds Klaus? 

He breathes in a jagged breath, wipes at his eyes and tells himself he is not crying again because he’s a goddamned adult and adults don’t break down over every single thing, even if that single thing is the possibility of spending an eternity alone while slowly losing his marbles. 

He’s not crying. 

He’s _not._

Luther hears footsteps. 

He hunches in on himself, flattens against the walls of the alley and the dumpster as much as he can, just on the off chance that who’s coming is a ghost. He doesn’t want to be seen. He doesn’t want to be seen and he knows he won’t be seen while he’s hidden in the darkness, snuggled against his little corner. 

There are two sets of footsteps, one loud and unabashed, the other one measured. Luther hears someone giggling madly, almost hiccupping with the effort. 

There’s something familiar about that laugh. 

There’s something familiar about that laugh, but Luther doesn’t care. He just wants them to be gone, because he’s still not sure whether they’re alive or dead or whatever, and even if they can’t see him, Luther still wants to be left alone to wallow in his misery. 

But they don’t leave. They step into the alleyway, sitting down on the other side of the alley, the other side of the dumpster, far away enough for Luther to remain hidden, but not far away enough for Luther to keep feeling like he’s safe and sheltered and away from the outside world. He still can hear them perfectly. 

“You’re an ass,” one of them complains, but it lacks bite. “I can’t believe you got away with that” 

The other one only giggles louder and crazier in response, and- 

There’s something familiar about that voice, too. 

It’s just a little something that Luther can’t quite place, can’t quite figure out between the sheer absurdity of the situation. Because truly, _truly-_ there’s just something about squatting behind a dumpster and spying on people while being a ghost that doesn’t let Luther think clearly. 

That same voice sniggers, “No, I mean it” 

And then, “Well, you-” giggles, giggles, giggles. “You know me, chuckles. I can be clever when I want to” 

Luther freezes. 

Is that- 

“I know, but-” 

“Shh, let me have this” 

There’s no mistaking, Luther’s heard that voice a thousand times over the last couple years sneaking into the academy late at night to steal gold valuables. 

Yeah, yeah, that’s- 

“Klaus!” Luther blurts out. 

He stands up as quick as humanly possible, accidentally merging his head with the dumpster for the briefest of seconds. Its shadow still hides him, and Luther goes to step out of it, to run towards his brother and spill his heart out, but then- but then, then he stops. 

He stops. 

Looks down at himself- 

His torso is a mess. 

His torso is a charred, bloodied mess. 

His uniform was cut out of his body, and the entire expanse of his chest is an open wound. Luther thinks, under the right lighting, he can see bone and mangled insides in some spots. 

It’s ugly. 

“Who’s there?” Klaus calls, tentative. Nervous. His voice insanely high. 

Luther keeps looking down at his chest. 

It’s ugly. 

_It’s so, so ugly._

Does he want Klaus to see him so ugly? Does he want Klaus look at him the way Luther’s been looking at all the other ghosts? Does he want that fear, that pity, that overwhelming disgust? 

Does he? 

Luther hears someone getting up, going around the dumpster with short, measured footsteps- maybe Klaus wanting to know who called his name. Luther stares down at his chest. 

He doesn’t want Klaus to look at him like that, he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t, but- 

It has to happen, right? It has to happen, otherwise Luther will lose his mind wandering around the city without knowing up from down, wandering and lamenting, trying and failing to avoid thinking about every single thing he ever did wrong, every single thing he ever could’ve done right. 

Klaus is standing in front of him now, but Luther doesn’t dare to look up. 

Not yet, anyways. 

“What-” Klaus says, except- 

Except that’s not Klaus’ voice. 

That’s not Klaus. 

Luther looks up slowly, taking in a pair of worn combat boots, dark jeans, dark clothes, dark everything, and then- 

Luther’s breath hitches, then slows down- stops altogether. He blinks over and over again, tells himself his mind’s playing tricks on him, taking advantage of his fresh grief for a life lost, making him suffer through all the possible _what-ifs_ of his miserable existence. But- 

But it’s not, it’s not. 

He opens his mouth, croaks out a broken sound between a cry and laugh. 

“Ben?” Luther breaths out, and time’s slowing down. “Is that- is that you?” 

But he doesn’t even have to ask, because the answer’s painfully obvious- that's Ben, that’s Ben! Ben, all thick eyebrows and kind eyes, Ben, long gone and forgotten, Ben, the one who deserved better, so, so much better- 

Ben is right there, standing in front of Luther. He’s frozen on the spot, staring at him with a half-horrified expression on his face. “Luther?” he asks, plain and simple. 

Yes, that’s him. Luther bobs his head up and down. 

He doesn’t know how to go from there, because- what the hell is he even supposed to say? I’m sorry you’re dead? I’m sorry Dad pushed you, I’m sorry I pushed you so hard to the point of no return? _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry- you shouldn’t have been on that mission, I’m sorry-_

Ben swallows tickly. “How?” 

Luther blinks, looks down at his chest. 

How? 

There’s more footsteps, and then Klaus is there. He’s standing right next to Ben, staring at Luther with wide, terrified eyes, an unreadable expression on his face. 

He’s not giggling anymore. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Klaus hisses, clenching and unclenching his fists, his eyes never leaving Luther’s marred chest. And there it is, there it is- 

That fear, that pity, that overwhelming disgust. 

Luther feels hot tears threatening to spill over and he does his damned best to keep them in, to avoid showing how much he wants to run and hide, walk away from that fear and that pity and that disgust. But he’s never been the greatest actor, and his breath hiccups, his eyes dampen. 

“Hey, hey, don’t” Ben babbles, reaching towards him. One of his hands freezes an inch away from Luther’s shoulders, and they both stare down at it, considering- 

Luther’s dead. 

Luther’s very, very dead. 

But so is Ben. 

They can touch if they want to- and maybe it’ll be a cold, unforgiving touch, foreign and wrong, because neither of them is alive and neither of them can feel like they’re supposed to, neither of them _feels_ like they’re supposed to. But Luther’s gone weeks _(-months, years)_ without a kind touch, and, and- 

He steps forwards, lifts up a hand and brings it to rest against Ben’s raised wrist. It’s cold and unforgiving, foreign and wrong, but it’s solid and present and there, and _it’s Ben, it’s Ben, it’s Ben-_

Luther doesn’t even think. He throws himself into his brother’s arms and hugs him tight, buries his face in the crook of his neck. They both make a wild sound, like a wounded animal running for its life, and Luther cries, he cries, he cries, he cries, keeping his cool be damned. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok” Ben’s saying, repeating all over and over again while rubbing Luther’s back. That and a thousand other things, a thousand other meaningless nothings. “You’re ok, you’ll be ok” 

Luther buries his hands in the material of Ben’s jacket, unwilling to let go. He thinks he can hear Klaus choking out some undignified groan, muttering angry words in a language Luther can’t understand, and then he’s pacing- pacing restlessly along the alley, kicking empty cans and angrily spitting out a long senseless string of, “Shit, shit, shit, shit” 

Luther whimpers, snaps his eyes shut. 

Klaus told him- told all of them, really, he said again and again and again, he could see Ben. He swore up and down Ben had been hanging around, haunting his ass and lurking around the academy’s hallways, ever present, ever dead. And it would have been natural, given the nature of his powers, to believe him- 

But Klaus also happened to get high, again and again and again, repeating he only ever did it to drown out the ghosts and if Ben was a ghost then how the hell would he have been able to see him? 

Luther never believed him. None of them did. 

Now he feels out of his dept, wildly confused, like he’s missing some integral part and now he can’t understand a single thing. Because Klaus is shaking and his eyes are red rimmed, and if Luther could smell anything, he knows, he just knows he’d smell the booze and the weed and the tobacco, and he also knows he’d be able to tell just how many pills his brother popped in the last couple hours. 

Klaus isn’t sober, but he can see Ben, he can see Luther. 

Does that mean all those years when he’d beg for someone, anyone to understand, to listen, to believe that Ben was standing there, next to his coffin- 

Luther’s missing something. 

“Luther” Klaus says, abruptly. 

Luther has questions, a thousand questions. 

But his brothers have got to have a thousand more. He shuts his eyes closed, opens them once again and takes a deep breath, lifts his head up and wipes the tears from his eyes. 

Klaus is standing deadly still. “Luther, what the hell happened?” 

He sighs, reluctantly steps out of Ben’s arms, keeping a hand loosely curled around his elbow, clinging. He shrugs half-heartedly, looks down at the floor. “Mission gone wrong” 

Ben tenses by his side. Yeah, he was a mission gone wrong, too. 

Klaus huffs out a worn, tired sound. He rubs his hands over his hair, over his face, over the smudged makeup on his eyes, leaving smeared stains all over his cheeks. Luther thinks he suddenly looks angry, very angry. “We all fucking told you to get out” 

Luther blinks. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Klaus angry. Not truly, not spitting out hissed words, not wild frenzy on his eyes, not shaking, not clenching fists, not- 

“We all fucking told you to get out,” Klaus repeats, and Luther starts feeling inadequate. Is that anger for him? “We all fucking told you-” 

“Klaus!” Ben shrieks, interrupts. He shoots Klaus a warning look. 

But Klaus ignores him, looks straight into Luther’s eyes. “I mean- before we were all little kids and we had no fucking choice, but what’s your excuse now, Luther? What’s the grand reason why you didn’t get the fuck out when we told you to?” 

“I’m- I-” Luther starts, flails. 

What’s his excuse? 

They did tell him to get out. 

They told him Five was dead, and Ben was dead, and if he didn’t get out, then he’d be next. Turns out they were right, so very right. 

Klaus takes his silence as an opportunity to go on, to keep yelling and screaming and making Luther feel like the worst person to ever exist. “Were you jealous that Ben got to go out in a blaze of glory and you didn’t? Did you want to be remembered as a fucking martyr, too?” 

Luther gasps. No. No, no, no, no. 

“No, no, no!” he tries to say, tries to scream, tries to mumble, but the words won’t leave his throat, won’t come out past a weak croak. 

He turns to look at Ben and almost breaks down crying once again, because- 

_No, no._

Ben didn’t go out in a blaze of glory, isn’t remembered as a martyr. Ben died a stupid senseless dead, caught up in the crossfire between some random goons with guns and his own monsters, died a stupid senseless dead brought over by the Umbrella Academy. And maybe before Luther would’ve argued it was just an accident, couldn’t be helped, would’ve eventually happened, was always a risk, but now- 

Those words keep echoing in his head. 

_No great loss._

_Won’t be missed._

Did Reginald write that about Ben, too? About Five? 

Luther lets his fingers go limp, lets go of Ben’s elbow and steps backwards and away from his brothers. He bows his head, ashamed, ashamed that Klaus would ever think that low of him, ashamed he’s ever given him a reason to. 

Klaus stays miraculously quiet for a while, maybe sensing he crossed some sort of line, hit something he shouldn’t have hit. “C’mon, big lug, you know I didn’t mean it” 

Luther nods rapidly, automatically, but he doesn’t know, isn’t all that sure. 

Ben sighs, resigned. Pats Luther’s shoulder and gives Klaus a tired look. “You can be a major asshole sometimes. Did you know that?” 

Klaus shrugs. 

Luther watches him pull out a cigarette and lit it up with shaky fingers, take a long drag. He watches him, watches the warm smoke, watches the way Klaus seems to relax just an inch further drag after drag after drag- and then Luther realizes he’s never smoked a cigarette, and now he never will. 

He runs his fingers through his hair, an edge to his movements. “I can’t believe this is happening” 

Klaus laughs a tired sound. “Look at the brightside, bro. Daddy’s gonna get you a shiny new statute, and I bet it’s gonna be bigger than Ben’s. Hooray!” 

Ben rolls his eyes, and Luther- 

_No great loss._

_Won’t be missed._

“I’m not so sure about that” 

Klaus frowns, and Ben frowns, and then they share a funny look Luther can’t quite interpret. Klaus and Ben didn’t use to share looks like that, to have those silent conversations. 

“Did something happen?” Ben asks, insanely carefully. His words soft. 

Luther opens his mouth, closes it back again. He could tell them, he could tell them because he’s a hundred percent sure they’d be the first ones to talk shit about Dad, to tell Luther exactly what he wants to hear but- 

_No great loss._

_Won’t be missed._

Even Klaus and Ben, even Diego, even Allison, even Vanya, even Five, any of them, they must think a little higher about their father than that. Luther doesn’t want to hear the disappointment in their voice, the little faith in their family they had left sputter out and die. 

He shakes his head. “Just- I guess you were right. Dad’s a prick” 

He’s met with twin expressions, matching blank stares. And yeah, yeah, it must be weird as hell for them because he’s Number One and Number One does everything Dad asks for, never speaks ill of him. But Luther thinks fuck it- _fuck it, fuck it, fuck it_ , he doesn’t want to be Number One anymore. 

“He’s a prick” Luther spits out. “He’s an asshole and he never cared about any of us” 

Klaus and Ben’s eyes widen, and they share one of those looks again. 

Luther feels exposed, like they could be talking about anything at all and he’d never know, calling him this and that. But then Klaus sighs with a loud, dramatic movement and that’s that. 

He wipes the worst of his smeared makeup off his face one handed, and then turns to look at Luther with a lifeless expression on his face, empty, tired. “You had to wait to killed to have that epiphany, huh?” 

Luther laughs. “I guess” 

They stay quiet for a while, each one of them lost in their own heads, their own thoughts, their own regrets. Klaus sits back down at some point, putting out his cigarette and resting against the wall. Both Ben and Luther do the same, one at each side of him. 

“How did you find us, anyways?” Klaus asks, softly. Very clearly just a way to fill the uncomfortable and suffocating silence, to avoid thinking about their new circumstances. 

Luther’s glad. He doesn’t like the silence, either. And it’s a funny story, anyways, how he found them. “I looked for you everywhere and we just happened to stumble into the same alley” 

“Everywhere?” Ben echoes. 

“Yeah,” Luther says. The many, many bars and clubs flash in front of his eyes. He’s seen so, so many drunk, half-naked people. “I spent weeks just wandering around and just when-” 

“Wait, hold the fuck up” Klaus blurts. “Weeks?” 

Luther blinks. “Yeah, weeks” 

He doesn’t understand what’s so jarring about that. He didn’t know, didn’t have a single clue where Klaus might be except for some high hope that he’d still frequent those regular bars from their teenage years that Luther just barely remembered. 

But then he turns to look at him, and Klaus doesn’t even look like he might upset about Luther’s incompetence. It’s something else, something bigger. 

Klaus opens his mouth, closes it back again. “You’ve been dead for weeks?” 

Oh. 

That. 

Luther nods slowly. “Yeah, almost three now” 

Klaus and Ben share a look again. Luther wonders exactly when they became close enough to be able to speak without words. “Luther, I-” Ben starts. “We didn’t know” 

“Dad didn’t call you?” Luther asks. He’s not surprised, all things considered. 

Klaus waves a hand. “No, I don’t even have a phone” 

And that’s odd, right? Why wouldn’t Klaus have phone? But then he chews his lip, gives Luther a troubled look. “Luther, there’s been nothing on the news, not a word. Dad probably didn’t even- shit, the world thinks you’re still alive. Did he even report your death?” 

Oh. 

Oh. That’s a whole new kind of low. 

Luther deflates. “He must have his reasons” 

“Bullshit” Klaus says, scoffing, and Luther agrees. 

There’s no good excuse. 

Bullshit. 

Ben shakes his head, sneers. Turns to look at Klaus. “Do you think the rest know?” 

“The rest as in-” 

“Yeah” 

More silent conversations. 

Luther thinks he understands this one, though. If Reginald didn’t even report his death, didn’t tell the police, the press, anyone- 

He could lie to himself. He could say it’s just the fact that apparently Klaus doesn’t have a phone, the fact that Dad didn’t have a way to reach him, but, but, but- someone else would’ve tried to find him, would’ve tried to tell him. 

He can’t lie to himself. 

Dad didn’t tell any of his siblings Luther’s dead. 

Nobody knows. Not Diego, not Vanya, not- 

Not Allison. 

Shit. 


	3. Get out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: the flashback scene where luther turns into a monkey man says seven years ago!!!! that means luther spent some time on earth after that before going to the moon!!! also, what where they even doing when they were 22

Klaus doesn’t have to say anything. 

They all sit quietly for a long while, staring at each other’s faces, considering. Luther doesn’t even question it, doesn’t even have to ask any questions when Klaus and Ben stand up wordlessly and start walking surely into the city’s south, towards the not-so-nice parts of town. He follows them. Of course he follows them. He might not know exactly where they’re going, but he thinks he knows the purpose and that’s enough. 

Their siblings deserve to know. 

* 

It’s a gym. 

It’s a fucking gym. 

Luther raises an eyebrow, gives Klaus and Ben a questioning look. 

They’ve gotta have the wrong address. Diego can’t live here. He just can’t. It’s old and rusty and decaying, all broken windows and peeling paint. The place is a far cry from the literal mansion they grew up in, and to Luther it seems almost impossible to believe that a person can live in such poor conditions, that _Diego_ can live in such poor conditions. 

Luther scrunches up his nose, stares up at the gym’s chained and graffitied doors. 

“Does he at least own the gym?” 

Ben barks out a short laugh, amused. He shakes his head no. 

No, then. Luther grimaces. 

Klaus shoots him a lopsided grin. “Diego’s taking the whole troubled former child superhero thing very seriously. He’s got a reputation to live up to, y’know?” 

It’s not like Luther expected Diego of all people to settle down in some apple-pie dream house with a white picket fence and a bunch of knife wielding children running around, but- 

“This place is disgusting” Luther tells them, very seriously. 

It’s disgusting, and creepy, and gross. It’s a _gym,_ too. He feels like he’s going to get tetanus or maybe an STD just by standing outside and breathing the same air as whichever people frequent this place. Or maybe- maybe not, because he’s dead and ghosts can’t get STDs. 

Can ghosts get STDs? 

Ben’s nodding along, solemnly. He’s staring off into a dark corner with a slightly horrified expression on his face. Luther shifts closer to him, stares off into the same corner out of sheer curiosity. He’s half expecting to see a dead body, or a prostitute, or some drunk, or- _something_ , something, anything, but it’s not any of those things, it’s- 

It’s a rat. 

A giant, dead rat. 

Luther sighs. “Can’t we just go inside already?” 

* 

The night keeps getting better. 

Klaus climbs through an open widow, because apparently getting Diego to open the gym’s door in the dead of the night is pretty much impossible. It’s best to go straight to the boiler room, he says, because turns out Diego doesn’t only live in a filthy gym. He lives in a filthy gym’s boiler room. 

So Klaus climbs, and that leaves Ben and Luther to- 

_To go through the walls._

Luther’s been avoiding going through any walls. 

Not for any particular reason other than the fact that anything that reminds him he isn’t a living person anymore has officially been upped to number one in Luther’s long, long list of situations to avoid at all costs. He doesn’t like going through things. It’s weird. It’s awful. It sends a tingling feeling all through his body, like fizzingly electricity- cold, _wrong._

Klaus climbs, and Ben goes through the wall, and Luther stands there, like an idiot. 

He doesn’t want to go through the wall. 

“Luther?” Ben’s asking, softly. 

Luther meets his gaze through the open window. “I’m- I’m coming, just give me a second” 

He doesn’t want to go through the wall. 

If he goes through the wall, isn’t it like accepting this whole situation? Like giving in? Like saying, yes, yes, I’m dead, I’ll never breath again, never grow up, never grow old? 

He doesn’t want to go through the wall. 

Ben seems to understand. 

Klaus, too. He smiles a twisted smile, rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, you know what, boys? This feels like ghostie business and I’m not a ghostie, so- ” 

He turns around and leaves, walks into the gym’s darkness. 

Luther stares at Ben. 

Ben stares at Luther. 

“I’m not-” 

“You can just-” 

They talk over each other. 

Luther shuts up. 

Ben shuts up. 

Luther sighs, runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, it’s been three weeks already, I should be able to do these things” 

Ben tilts his head, shrugs. “It took me longer, I think. Couple months.” 

Luther looks up. 

He pictures Ben, small and frightened. Experiencing all the same thing’s Luther’s been going through, fearing the realization that he’ll never exist, never be a person ever again. Except that Ben was a kid when he died, barely seventeen years old. Of course, it took him a couple months. 

But Luther, though. 

Luther’s lived through more, has prepared for more. He was raised to lead, to plan, to design and execute all the best strategies to live through all the worst situations. He was raised to get shoved into new, dangerous scenarios- the worst of the worst, and _survive_ , think fast and act faster. 

He should be able to do these things. 

Ben can afford a couple months, Luther can’t. 

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be-” he doesn’t want to say Number One. He’ll never be Number One ever again if he can help it. Luther stops, considers it. “I’m supposed to be the leader, Ben. What if you were in danger and I can’t get to you because I’m afraid of some bricks?” 

He knows it’s silly as soon as he said it. They’re both dead. There’s no more danger. 

Ben gives him a pitying smile, soft, barely there. 

Luther shies away from it. 

Next thing he knows, Ben’s walking over, going back through the wall all over again and standing right next to Luther. He reaches wordlessly, tugs one of Luther’s hands into his and yanks forwards, closing that safe distance between Luther and those horrifying bricks. 

They phase through the wall together. 

Luther barely notices, too caught up in the being grabbed and yanked around. 

They played like that all the time when they were kids, when Five was there, and Ben was there, and they were all there. Some games of tag, or hide and seek, or hopscotch- stumbling and pushing each other around in between laughter. It was fun. Nice. Familiar. Safe. Dad forbid them, of playing anything too touchy during their half hour when they were eight years old. 

Luther misses it, he realizes, he misses the stumbling and pushing each other around. The laughing. 

“Are you okay?” 

Luther blinks, nods rapidly. “Yeah, just- yeah" 

Ben lets go of his hand and that’s that. 

The gym looks bigger on the inside. Not cleaner, though. It’s dark, but Luther can just make out the high ceilings and wide windows. The boxing ring. He takes a couple tentative steps towards it, noticing the loose springs and the many, many mysterious stains all over the fabric. 

Something else catches his eye. 

It’s poster, announcing a fight. Luther doesn’t know jack shit about boxing, but he knows enough to understand it’s announcing an upcoming fight. There’s a lot of big words before it gets to the fighters, _the great, the grand, the invincible-_

The one and only, Kraken. 

The Kraken. 

Diego. 

Luther knows for a fact that Diego hates that name almost as much as Number Two. He wonders how his life came to this, to living in a boiler room, fighting for money. Luther never knew. 

He turns to Ben, and can’t quite hide the despair from his eyes. 

“C’mon,” Ben mutters, after a moment of helplessly staring. “Let’s just- let's go find Klaus, okay?” 

Luther nods. 

They go. 

There’s some stairs, and a hallway, and it’s dark. Ben keeps him company. 

Klaus is standing in front of a shut door, rocking on the balls of his feet. He brightens up when he sees them, waving frantically. “Oh, hi, hello, bro Numero Uno and bro Numero Dos!” he frowns. “Just so you know, Luther, you’re bro Numero Dos in this scenario. Or should I just say One and Six? But- that's weird. That’s weird, right?” 

Luther blinks. 

Ben sighs. “Did you knock already?” 

“Of course I knocked!” Klaus hisses. “The asshole won’t open the door” 

Luther would think there’s no one home, but he can just faintly make out the sound of two voices- one very clearly Diego’s, with an occasional squeak and stuttered word, and the other one measured, controlled- a woman’s. They’re fighting. Yelling. Luther can tell. 

“Who is that with him?” 

Klaus smiles wide. “I’m thinking it’s his lady friend” 

Luther frowns, feeling incredibly lost. Diego lives in a boiler room. Diego fights for money. Diego has a lady friend. Luther’s missed his siblings’ lives. He’s supposed to know these things. 

“Hold on,” Ben says, phasing through the shut door. They wait for him for a whole entire five seconds before he comes back, goes back through the door. “Yeah, it’s Patch. Just knock again, Klaus” 

Klaus knocks. 

The yelling continues, nobody opens the door. 

“See?” Klaus complains, gesturing wildly. “Asshole won’t open the door!” 

Ben groans. “Just do it again” 

Klaus does it again. Louder. 

No response. 

He knocks. “Diego!” 

Nothing. 

He knocks. “Diego, I know you’re in there!” 

Nothing. 

He knocks. “Diego!” 

The door flies open. The door flies open and suddenly Diego’s there, somehow managing to stare _down_ at Klaus even though they’re both around the same height. There’s a large scar, still raised and pink, painfully fresh, running from the back of his head to his eyebrow. Luther freezes. 

That scar wasn’t there before. 

That scar looks _deep._

That scar is far too close to Diego's eye, to Diego’s- 

He could’ve lost an eye, Luther realizes with a grimace, he could’ve lost an eye or he could’ve- 

He could’ve died. 

_Diego could’ve died and Luther had no idea._

Diego lives in a boiler room. Diego fights for money. Diego has a lady friend. Diego does- _something_ , something where he’s getting this hurt. That scar isn’t a boxing injury. 

“Diego, darling!” Klaus squeaks out, opening his arms wide for a hug. Diego doesn’t return it. Klaus lowers his arms awkwardly. 

“What do you want?” Diego hisses. 

Klaus shrugs. “We need to talk, brother o’mine” 

Diego’s eyes flick back, and Luther follows his line of sight until he spies a woman. A couple inches shorter than Diego, all dark hair and dark eyes and scolding expression, arms crossed over her chest. She’s looking at Diego expectantly, annoyed. 

What was her name? 

Patch, Ben said, Patch. 

“I’m kinda bussy right now” Diego glowers, gesturing towards her. 

Patch shakes her head, laughs a humorless laugh. “You know what? It’s alright, Diego, I was about to leave anyway” 

“What-?” Diego chokes out, turning around. 

Patch walks around the room, grabbing random pieces of clothing and books, bottles of product, even some mugs, and shoving them all inside a large purse. Diego’s eyes widen, panicked. He looks between her, and Klaus, maybe deciding which problem to tackle first. 

“Klaus, just-” he starts, stops. “Just wait here” 

He shuts the door. 

Okay. 

Klaus pouts, and Ben pouts, and Luther stands there. 

There’s more yelling, but this time around Diego’s voice opts a desperate, whining tone. If Luther didn’t know any better, he’d think his brother is begging. But Diego doesn’t beg. 

They wait for a couple minutes, and then Patch comes storming out. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie, very clearly not hers. It’s got a print. 

_Police Academy,_ it reads. 

Luther smiles. Yeah, that’s the one thing he did know about Diego’s life. He’s becoming a cop, because no matter how much he’d complain about the academy, he was good. He is good. Diego likes helping people, just like him. They’ve got that in common. 

_(Maybe Luther should've gotten out with him._

_Joined the police academy with him._

_Maybe then he’d still be-)._

Patch’s carrying her purse, stuffed to the brim. “Goodbye, Diego” 

Diego goes running after her, a little desperate. Stopping just shy of grabbing her. He’s giving her some space, not being an asshole and all that, Luther figures, even though he’s gotta want to lift her up and put her back in his filthy little boiler room. 

“Eudora, please-” Diego gushes. 

Huh. 

So Diego does beg. “Eudora-” 

Patch stops long enough to turn on her heel and level Diego with the dirtiest glare Luther’s ever seen. “Do _not_ call me that, Diego” 

And then she’s gone. 

Gone, just like that. 

Diego’s left gaping like a fish, staring at the space she was standing in. 

He stands there for the longest time, and Luther watches his fingers twitching- maybe aching for a knife, because it’s no secret that Diego has a weird relationship with anything sharp and shiny and if his lady friend just walked out on him- 

Diego growls an animalistic sound, walks back into his filthy little boiler room without a word. He leaves the door open, though. Klaus walks in, and Ben walks in, and Luther walks in. 

It’s- 

Nice. 

Luther wouldn’t call it cozy or comforting, but it’s something near. It looks lived in, for sure. There’s one of Mom’s embroideries hanging from the wall, a domino mask, two knives, Diego’s name. It’s nice. 

“What do you want, Klaus?” Diego spits out, while angrily opening and closing his kitchen’s drawers. He doesn’t even turn around to face Klaus. “Money? ‘Cause I’ve told you I don’t have any” 

“I’ve never asked you for money!” 

Diego gives him a look. Ben, too. 

Klaus falters. “Okay, maybe I’ve asked you for money, but-” 

Diego keeps poking around his kitchen, until he finally opens a drawer, and after digging around some dusty Tupperware and random cutlery he finds what he’s looking for. It’s a small bottle, clear. 

He takes a long swing. 

Very, very long. 

Luther was under the impression Diego didn’t drink. Something about his body being a temple, or whatever. Maybe he’s not taking well to his lady friend leaving him. 

Ben whistles a low sound, raising an eyebrow. 

Klaus laughs. “Atta-boy” 

Diego lowers the bottle long enough to raise his middle finger at him. 

“Okay, yeah” Klaus says. “That’s fair. Y’know? Considering your girlfriend just dumped you and all that. But worry not, bro. There’s plenty of good fish-” 

“She didn’t dump me, asshole” Diego hisses, hurt. 

Klaus raises his hands over his shoulders in a placating motion, empty palms facing him. It’s funny, because Luther notices for the first time Klaus has tattoos in there. Hello. Goodbye. Another thing he wasn’t aware off. 

Diego puts the bottle down and stalks across the room until he reaches his bed. He lets himself fall backwards on it in a dramatic motion, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbows. “What do you want, Klaus?” he asks, but he sounds defeated this time. Tired. “I don’t' think I have any food that you’d like but there’s a spare blanket somewhere in here, if you want to stay the night” 

“Uh, maybe, but-” Klaus starts, eyeing Luther and Ben. “We need to talk” 

Diego groans some noncommittal noise. 

Klaus toys with the hem of his shirt and his movements turn jittery all of the sudden, nervous. Luther gets it. He remembers, when Ben died, he was the first to know. He had to tell the rest of his siblings, Dad, Pogo, Mom. It’s not easy. It’s never easy. 

“A little help?” Klaus mutters, more lip movement than actual sound. Diego doesn’t hear it. 

Ben shrugs. “Just tell him, I guess?” 

Klaus nods rapidly, probably more to reassure himself than anything else. He turns to Diego, walks closer and closer to the bed, opens his mouth and- 

“No” 

Klaus stops. “Pardon me?” 

Luther falters. He’s- 

The first person he told Ben was dead, was Klaus. 

It was a terrorist attack. Some bombs, some threats, some hostages. Nothing too serious, nothing too out of the ordinary. But it all happened in the city’s airport, and that airport is big. 

They were all spread, separated. Luther made some bad calls, and it was Luther and Ben until it was just Luther. He ran into Klaus while he was wandering the airport aimlessly, covered in his brother’s blood. And he told him, straight up. No sugar coating. 

Klaus screamed and cried and ran away from home after doing enough drugs to either kill him or cause some serious brain damage, never to be seen again. 

Maybe Luther should’ve sugar coated it. Should’ve washed Ben’s blood off of him before finding any of his siblings. Maybe then Klaus’ downward spiral wouldn’t have been so bad. 

Diego deserves some sugar coating. 

“Just-” 

Luther stops, takes a deep breath. “Ask him if he’s talked to Dad” 

“Why would I ask him that?” Klaus deadpans. “He’s gonna punch me just for the mere implication that he’d ever care about the old man” 

Diego stirs, lowers his arms from his face. “Who the hell are you talking to?” 

“Uh, ghost?” 

Diego pulls himself into a sitting position, squinting. He looks around blindly. “If it’s a guy with a swastika band and a stab wound to the stomach, tell him I don’t regret it” 

Okay, yeah. That’s a totally normal thing to say. 

“I’m very curious of what you do in your free time, Diego” Klaus tells him, looking almost awed. Then he shakes his head, seems to remember exactly why they’re there. “Hey, um-” 

“Yeah?” 

Klaus sighs. “Just, quick question. Have you talked with good ol’ Reggie recently?” 

Diego stares at him for a long while, his head cocked to the side. “No, I haven’t” he finally says, after a couple seconds. “Why?” 

“Oh, y’know-” Klaus mumbles, looking anywhere but at him. Luther starts feeling a little anxious. This is it, right? Diego’s going to know. 

“Just spit it out, Klaus” Diego says. 

Klaus ignores him. 

Instead, he levels both Ben and Luther with an unreadable expression. Something sad, full of regret. “I don’t want to tell him” he says, and it feels like some sort of admission. 

“What?” Diego asks, and he sounds a little anxious too, now. “What about Dad? Did he do something?” 

(Luther takes a second to take in the fact that Diego asks if Dad did something. Not if something happened to him. 

Did everyone realize exactly who Reginald is before he did?). 

Klaus sighs a long, defeated sound. He sits next to Diego, on the bed. 

“Luther’s dead” 

Diego freezes. 

No breathing, no blinking, no anything. 

He holds himself completely still, and Luther does the same. Standing frozen to the spot, clenching and unclenching his fists just so he can do something with his hands, waiting for Diego’s reaction. Ben places a hand on Luther’s shoulder and squeezes gently. 

After the longest time, Diego seems to snap out it. “The hell do you mean he’s dead?” 

“I mean he’s dead, Diego” Klaus says, and he sounds just like he did back in the alley all over again. “Dad sent him on a mission and he didn’t make it” 

“W-what? That ca- can’t be-” Diego starts, standing up from the bed and pacing the room. “How do you- _fuck_ , how the fuck did Dad tell you before he told me? Were you in the house?” 

“No, I wasn’t in the house” 

“So, how? How do you know he’s dead?” 

Klaus lifts up his head, meets Luther’s eyes. 

Luther suddenly remembers the night of Ben’s funeral, remembers the exact second when Klaus stood and abruptly announced Ben was there, _Ben was there and he was crying and screaming and he couldn’t take it, Ben was there and he wanted his family-_

No one believed him. 

Diego follows Klaus’ eyes until he lands on Luther. He can’t see him, of course. 

He huffs, sighs something that sounds relieved. “Oh” he breathes out, and he’s- 

Laughing? 

“Diego, what the hell?” Klaus hisses, standing up to face him. 

“Klaus, Klaus,” Diego says, with a soft smile. “Luther isn't dead, promise” 

_“What?”_

They all say it. Klaus and Ben and Luther. 

Diego walks around, goes back to his mysterious bottle of alcohol and takes another swing with something of a desperate edge. “Just- Klaus, when’s the last time you went to rehab?” 

“How’s that relevant?” 

“Are you sober?” 

Klaus sputters, chokes out an indignant huff. “No, but-” 

“There you go!” Diego says, smiling wide while gesturing towards the general area where Luther’s standing with his mystery bottle. “Your stupid pills are making you see things, Luther’s not dead” 

Luther feels like someone punched him. 

Was it like this, for Klaus and Ben, when Klaus kept saying Ben was there and no one believed him? Did they feel this betrayed and hurt and cheated and alone? They probably did. 

He thinks they do now, too. 

There are angry tears pooling around Klaus’ eyes. “You know what, Diego? Fuck you” 

Diego huffs, annoyed. He puts the bottle down. “Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who’s always high as a kite. That crap’s rotting your brain” 

And yeah, yeah. Luther wholly agrees. But- 

“I’m not hallucinating” Klaus says, angry. His words cutting and awfully fast, low. “I fucking wish I was hallucinating but I'm not, Diego. Luther’s fucking dead. His fucking chest is all fucked up because Dad kept sending him on missions alone and-” 

“Hey!” Diego yells out. “Don’t go around feeding me some sob story, nobody’s forcing Luther, he only keeps going on missions because he’s a fucking idiot. And that fucking idiot is _not dead_. Get it? It’s in your head, Klaus!” 

Klaus grits his teeth. “It’s not in my head! Luther’s right there, and so is Ben!” 

Diego looks as he was slapped after that. Hurt. Luther watches as he clenches a fist around the handle of a knife, probably out of habit. 

Ben’s standing there, squirming silently. 

Both Klaus and Diego stare up at each other, daring. 

“Get out” Diego spits, his grip on the knife tightening. 

Klaus looks at him incredulously, shifting back and forth to send Luther and Ben questioning looks. “What the fuck, Diego? You can’t just kick me out” 

“Yes, I can” 

“No” 

“Get the fuck out” Diego says, sounding awfully sure. “You have no right to bring Ben into your little cry for attention, okay? Get the fuck out” 

Klaus crosses his arms over his chest, pouts petulantly. “Fuck you, Diego” 

He gestures Luther and Ben to follow him, and they do. They all stumble out of Diego’s little boiler room together, out into the gym and out into the street. 

They stand there, quietly. 

When Klaus said he could see Ben, no one believed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	4. I know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I didn't forget about this! 
> 
> Uhhh tw and spoiler alert: Klaus does the do while intoxicated and Luther chooses to interpret it as dub-con, which.... he's right and he should say it don't @ me

Now what? 

Luther steps away from Klaus and Ben, stumbles backwards onto the street. 

Now what? 

Klaus’ standing there, shaking harder than Luther’s ever seen him. He’s clenching and unclenching his hands into fists all over and over again, digging his nails into the flesh- leaving angry, red welts. It’s something fascinating, the way one second he’s all anger and self-righteousness, and the next- 

The next, he crumbles. 

He breaths out something shaky, and wobbly, and weak, and then he crumbles. Luther can’t tear his eyes away from Klaus as he hunches in on himself, shakes, and cries, and whimpers, hugs his arms tight against his body and does his damnedest to hide his face away. Luther can’t tear his eyes away. 

Ben’s there in a second, standing next to Klaus and whispering some nonsense to his ear, his hands hovering all of two inches away from Klaus’ arms. 

Luther can’t tear his eyes away. 

He feels- 

Numb. 

He feels like maybe he should be feeling something, doing something. Because Klaus is crying, and Ben looks like he’s somewhere near, and Diego- 

Diego chose to believe Luther isn’t dead. 

Diego chose to believe Luther isn’t dead, chose to believe Klaus is a liar, and Klaus wants attention, and Klaus would sink low enough to make him believe one of their own is dead. Luther- 

Luther feels numb. 

Now what? 

Klaus stops crying, abruptly. He stands frighteningly still for maybe two seconds too long, there, in the middle of the street, not shaking, not crying, not whimpering. Suddenly, suddenly, Luther feels for his brother, for both of his brothers, because it’s not like- 

Luther, he can deal with this. 

He feels numb, and maybe a little sick, and nauseous, and he doesn’t know if he’s still even capable of puking his guts out if he feels like it. He feels numb. He doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen next. But Luther, he thinks he can deal with this. 

He’s strong. 

He can deal with this. 

He can handle it, he has to. But- 

But the thought of his brothers, of Ben, and Klaus, the thought of them feeling even an ounce of the numb and empty, the sick and nauseous that Luther’s feeling- 

When Ben died- 

When Klaus said he could see Ben, no one believed him. 

Klaus reaches into his coat’s pocket, he does so stiffly, brokenly, barely moving a single muscle. He takes out a little bag, plastic, and unassuming. Luther freezes. 

Klaus doesn’t. He opens it hungrily, dumping its contents in his open palm with wide, desperate movements. Luther doesn’t even have to step closer and see. It’s drugs. Klaus just carries around with him a baggie full of drugs. 

_Drugs._

Luther huffs incredulously, “Klaus-” 

Klaus barely glances at him. He’s poking at his palm, at the baggie’s contents- pills, blue and tiny and unassuming. Luther doesn’t know what they are, and maybe Klaus doesn’t, either, judging by the furrowed brow and confused looks he keeps throwing at them. 

“Klaus, I swear to God” Luther starts, weakly. 

Klaus ignores him. 

Ben’s looking at him, at both of them, with such sad, sad eyes- 

All of the sudden, Luther feels like he’s fifteen years old all over again, hesitant, afraid, shaking his head fiercely when Klaus offers him a bite of his _special_ chocolate. He’s sixteen years old all over again, throwing open the bathroom’s door late at night and finding his brother passed out on the floor, covered in glitter and hickies and bruises, muttering nonsensically, laughing, clutching bottles and bottles and bottles. He’s seventeen, walking into the infirmary and finding Klaus elbow deep in the medicine cabinet, taking the morphine and the vicodin and the codeine and the god knows what else, and Luther’s yelling and Klaus is crying hysterically, begging and begging and begging and- 

All of the sudden, Luther feels like he’s eighteen years old all over again, fresh with grief- missing Ben more than life itself, and he’s running into Klaus, and he’s never seen his brother look so broken and desperate and so utterly wasted, high and drunk and upset. He’s eighteen, and he’s turning his eyes away, he’s pretending he doesn’t see the track marks on Klaus’ arms, pretending he doesn’t see the duffle bag behind his back. He’s eighteen, and he’s losing two brothers at once. 

Luther, he- 

“Klaus,” he starts, and hates the way his voice croaks and shakes, trembles. He takes a step forward, just a step. “Klaus, please, just- please, don’t- don’t do it, don’t take that” 

Klaus raises his chin up high, looks at Luther straight in the eye. And it almost feels like he can read Luther’s mind, almost feels like he can see straight through him, see the regret and the guilt and the years and years and years of wondering what if. Maybe he can. 

Klaus smiles, something twisted and broken. 

“Hey, hey, Klaus-” Ben’s saying, suddenly. He’s mumbling, really, throwing Luther some meaningful glances. “I don’t think this the best time for-” 

But Klaus interrupts him, all harsh eyes and harsher words, “Oh, pray tell, brother. You’re saying there’s a good time? Should I wait until we pay Vanya a visit and she tries to get me to see her shrink again? Or should we try Allison? So her goddamned publicist can tell me to fuck off again?” he makes his voice high and piercing, mimicking a woman’s, “ _’I’m sorry, I know you’re her brother and I’m sure she loves you very much, but she can’t afford to be associated with someone of your class right now- you could try again after rehab, though’_ ” 

Ben stutters, “That-that’s not what I meant” 

Klaus laughs, humorlessly. 

Luther feels ashamed, suddenly, for his brother and sisters’ actions. For his own actions. Because sure, sure, apparently Diego would rather believe the worse of Klaus, and apparently Vanya would rather have someone else deal with Klaus and all that he entails, and apparently Allison would rather keep her reputation pristine and pretty and perfect and- 

Back when he was eighteen, Luther decided he’d rather let Klaus disappear into the night, rather let him go away- far, far away, away where he wouldn’t bother him, or Allison, or Diego, or Vanya, or Dad, away where they’d never hear word about his ghosts and his pills and his lies ever again. 

Luther feels ashamed, so very ashamed. 

Klaus raises his palm up, swallows his mysterious blue pills dry. Ben hangs his head, defeated. 

Luther can’t do anything but watch. 

* 

The night is a blur, after that. 

First is a bar, and Klaus drinks more than Luther thought humanly possible. Glass, after glass, after glass of some cheap, off brand thing, all clear, and thick, and questionable looking. It might as well be bleach in a cup for all that they know. It looks disgusting. Luther figures it probably tastes worse. 

Klaus drinks it all and then some more. 

He wanders off, and then there’s another bar, and he keeps drinking. Luther stands aside and watches as he goes from occasionally hiccuping to full blown swaying and stumbling, slurred words. He drinks, and he drinks, and then he tries (very, very loudly) to fight some angry old lady that Luther’s about ninety percent sure is actually a ghost. He gets kicked out. 

Then there’s a disco, and Klaus snorts something straight out of someone’s belly button, and he dances, and he drinks, and he dances. Luther stays away, by Ben, and it’s all fun and games until Klaus decides to make out with some pretty girl in a short dress and her boyfriend shows up. There are threats and punches and not so kind words. Klaus is so drunk. Klaus is so high. 

He leaves with a busted lip. 

For the most blessed couple of minutes, Luther’s foolish enough to believe that’s it. Bender over- Klaus is done drinking, Klaus is going home. 

But then there’s a rave. 

More dancing. 

More drinking. 

The kind of place Luther can’t ever picture anybody wanting to go out of their own free will. 

Klaus is swaying drunkenly on the dance floor. And it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s alright, everything’s completely alright. But then some guy shows up. Old. Old enough to be their father, probably, all greying hair and lustful smile. He talks Klaus’ ear off, runs his hands all over his body- then it’s just a matter of buying him some more drinks, giving him some more pills. 

They leave together. 

Klaus is so drunk. 

Klaus is so high. 

They shouldn’t be leaving together. 

“Klaus!” Luther screams at him, from the sidewalk. Klaus is standing there, pressed up against the man, waiting for a cab or a taxi or a whatever to take them away. 

He feels tired. Worn. He wishes he could close his eyes and sleep. He wishes Klaus would listen. “Klaus, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

No reply. 

Ben’s been awfully quiet since the second bar, his hood pulled up, barely speaking. Luther’s already given up on trying to get him to help, already stopped paying all that much attention to him. _(He hadn’t seen his brother in years and years and years and he’s already stopped paying all that much attention to him._

_Luther wants to. He wants to._

_It’s just that-)._

He can’t stand the sight of that man’s hands groping and fondling Klaus’ everything, can’t stand the sight of Klaus’ droopy eyelids and lazy, empty smile. There’s just something about how incredibly _out of it_ he looks- 

There’s no time for Ben, now. 

“Klaus!” 

No reply. 

It’s like he’s almost unconscious, leaning heavily against the filthy stranger, his knees buckling under him every now and then. He looks lost. Unaware. Barely flinching away from Luther’s yelling. 

But he can still hear him, at least. Somehow. 

(Just how? He’ll never know. 

Even his own powers would fail him after that much alcohol). 

But he can still hear him. Luther knows, he knows because he thinks he can see a tint of annoyance under all that grogginess and drowsiness. An occasional flicker of the eyes. A glare, here and there. Klaus can see him, and Ben, too. He doesn’t react to the wailing woman on the corner, though. Or the little kid with a twisted neck that keeps jumping in front of passing cars. Just them. 

“Klaus, you can’t-” Luther starts, stops. He hates how desperate he sounds. 

A taxi arrives. The man opens the door wide and whispers something low on Klaus’ ear. Klaus giggles, high and artificial, so very fake. Nothing like his usual breathy laughter. 

“Klaus, c’mon, who even is this guy?” he pauses, thinks about it very carefully. He’s always had his suspicions, just like everyone else who’s ever met him has had, probably, but- he tries, he really does try, not to be an asshole. 

This seems like just the right time to be an asshole, though. He can’t stand the sight of man standing so close to his brother. “Are you even into guys?” 

Klaus does react after that. 

He pauses, turns to Luther wholly and gives him a _look._ It’s like he’s sober, during those few seconds. Sure of himself. He’s throwing one of those looks Luther wouldn’t have known to expect from him if it weren’t for that little scene with Diego earlier. 

It’s something that says ‘ _Are you an idiot? Are a fucking idiot?_ ’. 

Okay. 

Fine. 

Fine. 

Maybe Luther’s an idiot. 

Or- 

Or maybe not. 

He’s not an idiot, he’s just- 

His siblings all left and Luther was alone, away from them. He missed their lives. Completely. How was he supposed to know these things? That Diego lives in a boiler room and fights for money and thinks Klaus is a liar? That Allison won’t take calls? That Vanya sees a shrink? That Klaus is- gay, or whatever? 

He’s not an idiot. 

His point still stands, “Okay, yeah, okay- but,” he sighs, exasperated, tired, scared, “But this guy, though! Who is he? You can’t just-” he turns to Ben, nudges his shoulder, maybe a little too harshly. “Ben, tell him! He can’t just follow a random stranger home! He’s gonna get murdered, or- or-” 

Ben doesn’t reply. He shuffles awkwardly, looks down. 

Klaus raises an eyebrow. 

The man’s bussy, somewhere beside them. Leaning into the car and talking to the driver in hushed tones- maybe giving him directions, maybe planning exactly how he’ll get rid of Klaus’ body. It’s just them. 

“Ben?” Luther asks, tentatively. 

Because there’s just no way Ben has an argument against Luther’s. Klaus, maybe- he can picture him arguing he’s a big boy now and arguing he knows how to take care of himself, saying it’s okay because _“Don’t worry, Luther. I punched a guy in a mission that once, remember? The one time. I could do it again if I have to!”_ or whatever other stupid reason. 

But Ben, though. Ben’s got common sense. 

He waits, a second, two. 

Ben speaks up, shooting them both a quick glance. “It looks like it’s going to snow tonight,” he says, solemnly, and out of every possible response, Luther never expected him to say that. But he says it with such conviction- “It’ll probably be bad” 

“What?” he mutters, disbelieving, after a second. “Ben, what’s that got to do with anything?” 

But Ben doesn’t reply. Klaus and Ben stare intently at each other, having another silent conversation. Luther- 

Luther’s lost. Utterly. Completely. Again. 

He can just barely tell when Klaus goes rigid, looks at Ben with something akin to accusation, betrayal. Angry. Then Ben looks smug. Then Klaus looks plain sad. Then maybe they reach an agreement, and it seems to him that there’s yet another thing he doesn’t know about. 

Ben sighs, at last. Glances briefly at him and then nods. 

They decide to keep that something from him. 

Cool, that’s- 

It’s alright, Luther thinks. It hurts, and it stings, and it makes him feel every single bit the outsider he always felt back when the academy was at its prime, back when their family was at its prime. Luther knows his brothers and sisters never trusted him fully. But that’s- that’s okay. Dad always did say it wasn’t his role as a leader to be liked, anyway, to be trusted. 

It hurts. It’s okay. It’s alright. 

It’s alright. 

The old man finally stops talking to the driver, turns around and tugs Klaus into the car. 

Luther can’t do anything but watch. 

* 

Ben was right. 

It does snow. Bad. Heavy. 

Luther watches the snowflakes fall with some sort of sick fascination, marveling in the fact that he had never been able to stand under such a bad storm before, never been able to see the endless white from up-close like this, so carelessly. He’s dead now. He can’t feel the cold. 

He lingers under the snow for maybe a minute too long, pretending the fizzing electricity from the flakes going through his body is nothing but the wind brushing against him. It’s nice. It’s good. Better than watching Klaus and that stranger kiss and touch and prod and drag each other up the stairs of some nice apartment building. He lingers, eyes closed, until they’re upstairs and gone. 

He opens his eyes. 

Ben’s there, waiting for him, his head cocked minutely to the side, watching. 

He wonders if Ben enjoys the snow, too. Maybe not. They'd get snow sometimes, back when they were kids. And, not always, definitely not always- but every now and then they’d go out and throw snowballs at each other, build forts and snowmen and igloos, they’d have fun. It wasn’t Ben’s favorite thing. He’d always end up with snow under his shirt and a nasty cold, after, all miserable and feverish and sad, swearing up and down he was never going to go out and play in the snow with them ever again only to do it once more the very next year. Luther never understood him. 

He never understood, when Ben would complain, if the thing he hated was the snow or the playing or the getting colds. Luther never got colds. Ever. He never got sick. Ever. He thinks he sneezed twice, thrice, maybe- in twenty years. A perk of his power. 

But he did feel the cold. And now he doesn’t. It’s nice. 

Ben doesn’t say anything. He watches from aside, smiling softly. 

Luther smiles, too, just because he can. 

It’s nice. 

It’s nice until he remembers why they’re there. He follows Ben into the building, follows him through the maze of hallways and passageways and stairways. He follows him until they end up in someone’s living room, surrounded by a thousand framed photographs, a thousand bookshelves. It’s not even the same apartment Klaus’ at. This one’s empty. 

That’s probably for the best, Luther thinks, Ben did good. He does not want to think about that man touching his brother. 

It’s mainly because he truly, truly, does not know whether or not Klaus would want that man anywhere near him if it weren’t for the drinks that kept appearing in his hands, the little pills that kept dissolving under his tongue. He doesn’t know. Hasn’t got a clue. All he knows is that, if he were alive, he would've made sure, would’ve grabbed Klaus’ shoulders and shook him until he was awake and sober and responsive enough to tell left from right. 

He wouldn’t have let that man take Klaus home. 

He feels- 

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. 

“How do you do it?” Luther blurts, abruptly, into the silence. 

Ben startles, looks away from the bookshelf he had been staring at. He looks at Luther like he genuinely has no idea what he’s being asked. “Do what?” 

“The- _this_ ” He lets himself fall backwards into a large, grey couch- a giant thing with far more cushions and throw blankets that Dad would’ve ever allowed in the house. “The watching Klaus do all this stupid crap and not being able to do anything about it” 

Ben shrugs, almost immediately. And- yeah, yeah, that was his standard response to most questions, wasn’t it? Back when he was alive. It used to irk Luther, before, but now- 

He pushes the feeling down, keeps on, “It’s just- I bet this isn’t a one time thing. I bet Klaus pulls something like this every night, just like when we were children” 

“Not every night,” Ben says, cautious. 

He goes to sit next to Luther, carefully, so very carefully. Luther watches him take off his hood, ruffle his own hair. There’s something about the way he carries himself, when he speaks- 

Luther just said it for the sake of it, just because back then, it seemed like Klaus was away in one of his late-night adventures more often than not. It wasn’t _every_ night, though. It wasn’t whatever Ben’s implying, either. 

“Is -is it bad? Often?” 

Ben nods, minutely, after a moment. 

Luther sighs. 

He- 

He can’t picture it, getting worse than stealing from the infirmary, than downing bottle after bottle of Dad’s priced whiskey. He can’t picture it, Klaus spiraling away after years and years and years of begging him not to. 

Is this his life? 

Is this all there is to it? 

Is this all there is to Ben’s existence, since the day he died? Following Klaus around, watching him do all sorts of dangerous things, all sorts of stupid things? Unable to help? To intervene? 

Luther wonders, not for the first time, what his own future looks like now. 

“I’m dead, Luther” Ben says, suddenly. 

Luther turns to look at him. 

Ben goes on, barely paying attention to him, “I’ve been dead for five years.” he pauses, waits a beat, “When I-” another beat, longer, far heavier, “You treated Klaus like shit” 

Luther freezes, tenses. He knows. 

_He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows-_

Ben grabs onto his elbow, squeezes gently. “No, not just you, Luther. I mean everyone. Allison. Diego. Dad. You all were-” he sighs, maybe unable to find the right words, “I mean, during that first year I really couldn’t blame Klaus for half the stuff he pulled- _hell,_ I wanted to join in and have a drink or two myself, if I’m being honest” then, then there’s a rare sort of honesty in Ben’s eyes, “It was tough- we were alone, we had nothing” 

Luther swallows a sudden lump in his throat, “And now?* 

“I hate it and I think he’s an idiot for wasting the little money he manages to get on drugs instead of- I don’t know! Food? Clothes? Something useful- But- but I don’t really blame him either. He doesn’t have much going on, you know? And it usually isn’t as bad as tonight” 

Luther doesn’t reply. How could he? What is he supposed to say? He can’t really get on on _not blaming_ Klaus for his drugs. He just can’t. It’d be like- 

There are just some things that- 

There are things that deserve forgiveness. And Luther forgives, he does. But where’s the accountability? Where’s making Klaus responsible for each and every single time he has lied and twisted words and stolen and broken and made everyone who’s ever loved him fear for his life? 

Where’s the accountability? 

Where’s Klaus trying, trying his damnedest to be a better person, just like the rest of them? 

“He’s upset,” Ben tells him. 

“I know” Luther replies, no hesitation. 

“He’s angry” 

“I know” 

“He’s sad” 

“I know” 

Does he know. 

He hates just how desperate Klaus looks. 

Ben straightens up, on the couch, sits a little further away and takes a long look at Luther. And it’s- it’s fine, until suddenly Ben’s eyeing all the scars and the blood and the gore. Luther squirms, crosses his arms over his chest. 

Neither one of his brothers have had the pleasure of looking at that hideous mess under the sunlight. 

He so not looking forward to that. 

Ben clears his throat, pretends he wasn’t looking, “How are you feeling, really?” 

Luther huffs, smiles something empty. 

How is he feeling, really? 

Is he upset? Yes. 

Is he angry? Yes. 

Is he sad? Yes. 

Those words still echo around his head. 

_No great loss._

_Won’t be missed._

Diego wasn’t in a rush to check if maybe, just maybe, Klaus was telling the truth. Klaus and Ben never would’ve even known, that he had died, if he hadn’t appeared right in front of their faces and now it seems like he’s breaking whatever balance they had figured out. They’re keeping something for him. 

Maybe Dad was right. 

_No great loss._

_Won’t be missed._

Luther forces his smile into something nicer, wider. The sort of smile the cameras just love. “I’m fine” he announces. 

But- 

Ben grimaces, raises a disbelieving eyebrow. 

Luther’s smile falters. He does not let it fall. “I’ll- I'll be fine, I swear, Ben” 

Ben smiles back, but it doesn’t feel- 

It the sort of small, pitying smile he’d give Vanya after she got maybe way too ecstatic and happy and overjoyed after Dad muttered some lousy and uncaring ‘ _good job’_ about her violin. It’s the sort of smile that screams _I feel sorry for you._

_I feel sorry for you, Luther. You’re not fine. And you’ll never be._

Just like they all knew Vanya was never going to be extraordinary to their father’s eyes, Luther knows he’ll never fine. Not like before, at least. 

And it’s just- 

It’s not fair. 

It’s not fair! 

He suddenly feels overwhelmed with that certainty, that undeniable knowledge that everything he knows and everything he’s ever known won’t ever be the same. 

He does not enjoy the feeling. 

At all. 

He wants the night to be over so Klaus can be done with all he needs to be done with, he wants the night to be over so they can leave- leave this stupid place where Luther can’t do anything but stare into Ben’s pitying eyes for hours and hours and hours- 

“Hey,” Luther blurts, “Uh, hey-” 

“Yeah?” 

He wants Ben to stop looking at him like that. 

He needs Ben to stop looking at him like that. 

He spits out the very first thing that comes to his mind, “Five?” 

He doesn’t even need to ask, because it’s obvious by now that wherever their brother might have ended up in, wherever that might be, it isn’t here, with them. 

But Ben’s eyes soften, and just like that, there’s no more traces of pity in his eyes. 

“Oh,” he starts, looking pensive. “I actually don’t know. I don’t think he’s- I mean, he’s probably dead- he has to be, right? But he’s never bothered to show” 

“You think he’d just- what? Not try to find any of us?” 

“I think he could be a stubborn son of a bitch when he wanted to” 

Luther can’t help it. He barks out a short laugh. Maybe at the absurdity of hearing Ben-goody-two-shoes-Hargreeves swearing, or maybe because it’s true, it’s true- 

Five would so not try to find any of them. 

If he’s dead, that is. 

Luther smiles, “Remember how he wanted to time travel?” 

Ben hums, “Yeah, kept saying he was gonna drag us all to ancient Greece and make sure we were worshiped as deities because of our powers” 

The fall silent, each lost in their memories of a snarky twelve-year-old boy with dreams of grandeur, a boy who’d never hesitate to comfort them, and protect them, and kill for them, and call them a moronic idiot to their faces. Five was the best. He was always the one who proclaimed he hated ever being brought up alongside the bunch of them the most, but in reality- 

Luther thinks he might have been the one who loved it the most. The companionship, the rivalry. The silly playing, and talking, and laughing. 

Luther still misses him, sometimes. Even though it’s been years. 

“You ever wonder if he actually did it?” 

“Time traveled?” 

Luther nods. 

Ben grins, easy, and happy, and relaxed. “You know what? I bet he did. I bet he’s somewhere in the Bahamas right now- in the forties or something, living like a king” 

Luther laughs, picturing it, “Yeah- yeah, I bet he spends his days doing nothing but swimming and reading by the beach, and- and he only ever wears swimsuits” 

“I bet they’re briefs” 

“I bet they’re red” 

They burst out laughing. It’s just- 

Five’s got to be the only one of them who never complained about having to wear a tie. He’d never, ever, under any circumstances, would be caught dead wearing red briefs to the beach. 

But it’s nice, to picture him so carefree, enjoying his childhood. 

“Do you think he’s happy, wherever he is?” 

Luther hopes so. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, hello, i'm gonna try really hard not to go 2 months without updating but i'm a hot mess so we'll see
> 
> the good news are!!! i went crazy the other night and wrote the outline for some 14+ chapters so... this is gonna be long af


	5. What a bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this like a month ago and literally forgot to post it? Maybe so

The very next morning, Luther, and Ben, and Klaus, (-and the whole entire neighborhood, probably) come to find out the guy Klaus slept with turned out to be very much married to an angry looking woman who had the misfortune of finding out her husband might or might not be all that into women after all the hard way. 

She yells, and she cries, and she threatens to call the police and accuse whoever lets themselves be accused of a handful of colorful crimes that no one actually committed. It’s truly a scene. 

By the time he’s being quite literally kicked out of the apartment complex, Klaus, at least, has the decency to look half ashamed, desperately tugging his pants up with one hand, carrying his shoes and his shirt and jacket with another. Luther doesn’t really say or do anything, while the woman violently throws her husband’s stuff at him, up from the window. What could he do, anyway? He’s dead. 

“Christ on a cracker,” Klaus mutters, shaking his head side to side and blinking rapidly. He ducks behind a tree and rests his hands on his knees, folded over. He looks like he’s gonna be sick. Luther takes a wild guess and assumes it might be because of those whole entire three bottles of vodka he chugged last night- and the beers, and the pills, and the mysterious powder. “ _ Christ on a fucking cracker _ ” 

Ben makes a face, arms crossed over his chest. “Are you okay?” 

Klaus looks up, sharply. 

Something goes flying, from the window- smashes forcefully against the tree they’re hiding in with a resound crash, pieces of glass and metal scattering themselves all over. A TV, maybe? A radio? Luther startles, jumps back a couple paces. 

Neither Klaus nor Ben react in any way. 

They don’t even blink. 

“I am not okay, Benjamin” Klaus says, and then promptly throws up all over the side walk. 

* 

But he is. 

He’s okay. 

He does throw up an alarmingly large amount of bile, and he does end up having to make a run for it when the woman actually calls the cops on him, and he does curl up tight on the first random bench he manages to come across for a couple hours until someone comes out from some random store and kindly asks him to fuck off because he’s  _ scaring away the costumers _ , but- 

He’s okay. 

As okay as he’ll ever be, at least. 

Luther breathes out a sigh of relief when Klaus grumbles some nonsensical rubbish and actually manages to walk away from his sad little bench without stumbling or toppling over his own feet once. 

He’s okay. 

“Well, that was a complete shit show” Klaus announces, sighing heavily. He pulls out a cigarette from out of nowhere and lights it up, takes a drag. “I’m never doing drugs again” 

Ben raises an eyebrow. 

Klaus snorts, rolling his eyes. 

Luther looks away, awkwardly. 

He knows Klaus doesn’t actually mean it. That he’s just- making a joke, trying to take some gravity off the situation, as he’s done since they were children. And he’s grateful, he is. God knows their family would’ve gone to hell far sooner than it did if it weren’t for Klaus’ attempts at keeping everyone nice and happy and entertained. But- 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember a scrawny teenage boy crying his lungs out, begging, repeating all over and over again he’d be good this time, he’d stay away from the pills in the infirmary this time, he’d be good, he’d be good- no more drugs, he’d be good,  _ please Dad, please, there’s no need for punishment, not this time, please, no-  _

Luther never did know exactly what Klaus’  _ punishment  _ entailed. 

Nothing good, he supposes. 

He had asked, once, and Dad said Klaus was making it seem like a bigger deal than it actually was, Klaus was exaggerating, being whiny, and annoying, and  _ it isn’t a punishment per se, anyway, Number One- it's training. Number Four is so incompetent and spoiled he’s complaining about training.  _

Luther had believed him, then. 

But now- 

Klaus takes another drag of his cigarette, skips ahead. But then he turns back around, maybe to make some other quip about his sudden and nonexistent journey into sobriety, and he- 

“God, what the-” he breathes, eyes wide as saucers. “Luther, what is that?” 

Luther blinks, looks ahead. “What’s-” he starts, parroting, but then he realizes Klaus’ eyes are zeroed in on his chest. His bloody, gory, mess of a chest, all broken skin and bones and filthy blood. “Oh,” he mutters, and he wants to cover himself but he can’t. His uniform was cut off him before he died. 

He thinks hugging his chest and turning around so no one can see him might be a little bit childish, so he doesn’t. Instead, he forces himself to keep his arms by his side, unmoving. “Oh,” he repeats, shifting awkwardly. “Yeah, that” 

“What happened to you?” 

“I told you already, a mission gone-” 

“No, you-” Klaus glowers, stutters. He breathes in, breathes out. Drops his cigarette on the sidewalk, uncaring, oddly cold. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

Ben huffs, incredulous, takes a step forward “ _ Klaus _ ” he starts, as a warning, loud and shocked, and he sounds more like a chastising parent than Reginald ever did. 

Klaus squares his shoulders, Ben, too. 

They stare at each other for several moments, daring. Luther thinks they might be having another silent conversation- about him, of course, about whether or not they’re allowed to ask about his death. 

He feels his fingers twitch, and he curls them into a fist for lack of anything better to do with them. He feels odd, like some sort of third wheel barreling on between his brothers’ lives. They accepted his presence, no questions asked. They’re probably allowed to ask about his death. 

The silence stretches. 

“They’re chemical burns” Luther blurts. 

Klaus and Ben snap their necks towards him, twin movements, quick and precise. There’s an air of confusion, to their expressions. They don’t ask any questions. 

Luther bites his lip, exhales. “They’re-” he stops, realizes he’s looking down and forces his eyes upwards towards Klaus and Ben’s faces. “There was this biochemical thing- someone wanted to turn it into a weapon, I think, I’m not sure. Dad asked me to retrieve it, but...” 

But I failed. 

Ben frowns, hardens. 

Klaus huffs out, long and hard, disbelieving. “Let me get this straight- Dad send you to fetch him some weird chemical thing with  _ no _ protective wear whatsoever?” 

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Jesus Christ. What the fuck?” 

Luther blinks. “I don’t really see the problem, Klaus. I understand now that Dad might not have been the-” he works his jaw, unclenches his fists. “That mission was my fault” 

“Luther-” Ben starts, and he looks so very sad. 

Klaus narrows his eyes. “Remember Paris?” 

Luther snorts, “I don’t think I could forget Paris even if I wanted to” 

“Yeah, well. Remember how the old man gave us some freaky space suits just on the  _ off chance _ that those rumors about aliens were real? Remember?” 

Luther- 

Luther remembers. 

Luther remembers looking down at his special suit and feeling wonder and awe and plain admiration, wondering how their father managed to be so cautious and smart. How he could care so much about them, and their wellbeing. 

Paris was a rumor, an off chance. (There were cameras, then. So many cameras. Paparazzi and reporters. The Academy was at its prime). 

The biochemical weapon- 

Those weren’t rumors. 

Dad, somehow, did not think of sending him off to the mission with protective gear. 

“Oh,” Luther mutters. 

Klaus nods vigorously. 

Ben sighs. 

Maybe- 

Maybe Paris wasn’t worrying and caring. Or maybe it was. But not about them. It was worrying and caring about his precious academy, about not having one of them kick it before they could prove their worth to the whole entire world. Maybe- 

Maybe he just didn’t care enough about Luther, about his life, once the Academy was no more. 

“Fuck that bastard” Klaus says, in earnest. 

Luther looks at him. He looks at him, shaking slightly, eyes red rimmed and wet and broken, he looks at him, and all he can see is that gangly teenage boy, begging not to be punished. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, and the words taste bitter. “Yeah, fuck that bastard” 

* 

Klaus finds another sad little bench. 

This one tucked away deep into a poor excuse of a park. No one bothers him. 

“Now what?” Luther asks. 

Ben gives Klaus a hopeful look. “Vanya?” 

* 

It’s only after a good couple hours of straight up begging that Klaus finally relents and says that yes, he will pay Vanya a visit, but no, he will not tell her Luther’s dead.  _ Hell no, you assholes- do you want her to pull a Diego? Is that what you want? I will not be kicked out twice. _ It’s- 

It’s not ideal. 

Luther thinks he might tell her, even though he says he’s not going to. But- 

Who really knows, honestly? 

They stand up, and they leave the sad little bench and the sad little park, and then they’re walking towards Vanya’s place, up north in the city, where all the good theaters are. 

(“Don’t you wanna stop home first? Change?” Luther had asked, frowning at Klaus’ unkempt clothes. It truly goes against everything he knows about Klaus, to wear the same outfit twice. 

Klaus had recoiled, as if slapped. He had stopped dead in his tracks, glanced nervously at Ben, and then laughed a breathy laugh. “No- no, I-” 

“Klaus?” 

A sigh, resigned. “I’m alright. I’ll change later, promise”). 

They go, and they only get lost an impressive number of three times, considering that Klaus and Ben had only been to Vanya’s place once, and Luther was still under the impression that she had gone abroad for some musical program. 

They go, and Klaus knocks on her apartment’s door. 

They wait for a couple seconds, and then she’s there, openly gaping. 

She looks good. 

Somehow, incredibly smaller and meeker than he ever remembers her being- but then again, Luther always did think of each and every one of his siblings as big and bold and bright. She’s just standing there, clutching an oversized mug with something steaming close to her chest, her hair a ruffled mess. 

“Klaus?” Vanya asks, hesitant and disbelieving, maybe a little accusing. “What are you doing here?” 

Klaus’ face does something funny for half a second, like he’s hurt, or offended, maybe- but he doesn’t let it show for long. “Why? Can’t a guy visit his favorite sibling from time to time?” 

Then it’s Vanya’s turn to go through that split second of emotion. She was never anyone’s favorite. Not even Klaus’, Luther thinks. She’s got to know that. “What- no, no, you know you’re welcome here whenever you want to, I just- I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all” 

“Yeah, sorry about that” 

They fall quiet. 

They stare at each other. 

Luther shares an uneasy look with Ben. Ben shrugs halfheartedly. 

“So, uh-” 

“Do you want to-” 

They talk over each other in true Hargreeves fashion, but then they laugh. Something hesitant but there, present. Vanya loses a lit bit of tension from her shoulders. 

“C’mon, just- come on in,” Vanya says, gesturing inside with that giant mug of hers, the liquid sloshing dangerously but for some sort of divine miracle, not falling. 

Luther watches her as she walks backwards into her home, opening the door big and wide and waiting just enough time for Klaus so step in before leaning to close it shut back again. Luther scurries behind Klaus’ heels to avoid phasing through the door- Ben ends up halfway between, grimacing. 

Klaus catches sight of him and snorts loudly, immediately making a poor attempt to turn the noise into fake coughing when Vanya side eyes him with a concerned frown. There’s no way she buys it. 

(Luther wonders just how many times he, or any of them, for that matter, blamed Klaus’ seemingly erratic behavior and unexplainable reactions during the simplest conversations to drugs, or alcohol, or his personality as a whole. When it was just... 

_ Ghosts _

When it was just Ben). 

Vanya shakes her head, probably deciding right there and then it’s not worth it to question Klaus about his laughing. “I was just having some hot cocoa,” she says, pointing at her mug. “I can make more if you want” 

Klaus nods rapidly, opening his eyes big and wide, maybe a little too intensely. “Oh yes, please” 

Vanya gives him a crooked half smile and turns around without a word, heading towards her tiny kitchen, set on preparing another mug. She’s got to be grateful for having something to do with her hands instead of trying to pry some small talk out of Klaus. 

Luther looks around, takes in Vanya’s apartment. It’s- 

Bland. 

Ordinary, he’d say. Exactly what he’d picture if asked to describe what an average house is supposed to look like. It’s got everything, he supposes, the couch, the dining table, the kitchen, two adjacent doors he assumes to be bedrooms- a bathroom, maybe. But there’s not much in the way of decoration. 

Her bedroom in the academy looked like that, too. 

Empty, in a way the rest of their siblings’ never did. 

At least she doesn’t live in a boiler room. 

Or in a- 

Whatever it is that Klaus lives, that he didn’t want to stop for clothes. 

There’s an excited shriek, a soft gasp. “ _ Marshmallows? _ You are spoiling me, dear sister ‘o mine” And there’s Klaus, standing dangerously close to Vanya in her kitchen, watching her work- she's ripping open a little plastic bag full of marshmallows, carefully piling them into a steaming mug. 

Vanya smiles, chuckles quietly, to herself. 

Luther watches the scene, relaxes. It’s going far better than it did with Diego, already, and even if Klaus ends up not telling her, or even if she ends up not believing them- 

It’s good. 

He searches for Ben’s face, to see if maybe he feels the same way. He’s got to, he knows- but he’d still like to really make sure. He searches, but Ben doesn’t even look like he’s aware of just how much nicer than Diego Vanya’s being. 

Instead, he’s staring intently at Klaus. Glaring, really. 

Leveling him with a look than makes him feel a little uncomfortable, with how stern and fierce and grave. He goes to stand right in front of Klaus, completely blocking his view of Vanya and her kitchen and her cocoa. “When’s the last time you ate?” he hisses, and Luther frowns, wonders. 

Klaus rolls his eyes, tries to push past him but- can't. Ben’s not tangible, and he doesn’t budge. 

“No, seriously,” Ben says, with a sudden resolve that Luther almost fears. “It wasn’t today and It wasn’t yesterday, Klaus. I get that you’d forget with-” he pauses, spares Luther a glance. “- _ everything _ . But you know you can’t-” 

“Oh my-” Klaus starts, looking very much like an exasperated child being chastised. He takes a step back away from Ben, from Vanya, and he whispers, irritated, “If you don’t shut up right now, I swear I’m going to-” he stops, gives Vanya a sheepish look. 

Vanya’s frozen in the middle of putting away the left-over marshmallows, staring at Klaus with a concerned expression. Klaus gives her a little wave, smiles something innocent. 

“Ask her for food” Ben says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“No” Klaus replies- loudly, and then winces. 

Vanya stares between Klaus and Ben, or between Klaus and an empty patch air, for her, Luther guesses. She keeps doing that, staring, looking far more concerned by the second. “You’re-” she starts, and it seems like she didn’t even mean to speak.  _ “What?”  _

“Nothing!” Klaus declares, clapping his hands in front of his chest for some reason. He steps away and walks around the apartment in a poor attempt at deflection, poking at Vanya’s things. Vanya lets him, watches him. 

Luther watches him, too. Ben, also. 

“Does he,” Luther starts, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Does he forget to- eat? Often?” 

“All the damned time” Ben says, a bitter mix of resignation and righteous anger. 

Klaus briefly turns to look at them, scowling, but he doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t react in any other way. He probably doesn’t want Vanya to think he’s crazy. Crazier. 

“Hey, what’s this?” Klaus titters, plopping down on Vanya’s chair, her dining table. There’s a large typewriter there, right in the middle. Luther hadn’t fully registered the fact it was there, too caught up in the seeing Vanya for the first time in years. 

There’s a bunch of papers next to the thing, already printed and written in. Klaus grabs them, flips through them “Oh, you’re a writer now! How classy!” and it’s all he manages to say, to do, before- 

Vanya squeals out a ridiculously high-pitched yelp. “It’s- it’s nothing” she babbles, stammering, with something of an edge. She doesn’t waste a single second before running over and yanking the bunch of papers right out from Klaus’ hands. 

“Oh, c’mon, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about” Klaus whines, desperately trying to peer over her shoulder while she picks her things up from the table with frantic motions. “Being a writer is cool! It’s- uh, fun! Chic! Sexy, even!” he gushes, all hand gestures and charming smile. “Did you know Ben once told me when we were like ten that he wanted to be a writer when he grew up? He said, quote, unquote- he was going to be ‘ _ famouser than Dr. Seuss’ _ ” 

Vanya stops dead in her tracks for a moment, a disbelieving look on her face. Maybe at the mention of Ben, Luther thinks- none of them are particularly fond of being reminded just how much the academy screwed their family over. But then she shakes her head minutely, frowns, “Yeah, I know, Klaus” she says, “You’ve told us a couple times before” 

Ben huffs out something incredibly annoyed and maybe a little dumbfounded, crossing his arms over his chest while raising an eyebrow. “Dude, seriously?” 

Klaus blows him a kiss when Vanya isn’t looking. 

And- yeah, yeah, Luther’s been told that story at least a dozen times. Not always from Klaus. 

Vanya carries on. Picks up more and more loose pieces of paper, grabs some open notebooks with scrawled writing across them, grabs her pens and her pencils and her everything, and to top it all off, she awkwardly, arduously, attempts to pick up her typewriter up one handedly. 

Klaus frowns, stands up and crowds her space, “Let me help you,” he breathes, trying to pry the writing machine right out from Vanya’s hands. 

But Vanya doesn’t relent. Not even a little bit. She huffs, taking a wobbly step backwards and away. “No, no, that’s alright” she hurries to say, maybe a little too fast and breathy to be considered casual. Luther watches, slightly horrified, as she keeps walking backwards, quick and definitely not graceful, walking and walking and walking, and then, finally, stumbling. 

She steps on top of some knickknack on the floor, a forgotten violin stand, a dropped and out of mind pen, pencil, the foot of a chair- something, something unimportant. Luther doesn’t quite catch what it is. What he does catch though, is the way Vanya yelps, high pitched and scared, and the way she trips and loses her footing, and, in the middle of her own and Klaus’ desperate attempts to keep her upright, she plops down to the floor with an ungraceful yelp. 

Luther winces, reaches for her in a split second of idiocy in which he blissfully forgets the very important fact that-  _ oh, right, right, he’s dead, he’s dead, if his sister were to plummet down a flight of stairs his most heroic act would have to be to stand there and stare.  _

So Vanya falls down. 

“Shit-  _ Vanya! _ ” Klaus cries, running to her side and helping her up. But she seems alright- a little dazed and undignified, but otherwise alright. Her things- her typewriter, her papers, her notebooks, her pencils- 

Those are not alright. 

Luther’s thinks he could almost be glad to be a ghost in that moment, because picking that whole mess up seems like too much trouble. Everything’s scattered around the room, a giant mess of paper and paper and paper, white, like snow. 

Vanya grunts, rubs her hip for all of two seconds before leaping forward on her knees and beginning a desperate attempt to pick her things up. Klaus kneels, too, but then Vanya- “Hey, no, I’ve got it-” 

“Christ, Vanya,” Klaus says, rolling his eyes and going to pick the loose papers up. “I’m not gonna stand there and watch you clean this mess by yourself” 

“No, Klaus, really-” 

“I’m chivalrous, y’know?” he keeps picking things up, one by one by one, barely glancing at them. “But chivalry only works if you actually let me-” 

_ “Klaus!”  _

Vanya yells it out, loud and so very sure. Luther could almost swear he sees her lone lightbulb shiver and tremble in time with her shouting. It swings wildly from side to side, its faint squeaking loud amidst the silence. But it must be a coincidence- a minor earthquake, a big truck passing by down the street. 

Klaus blinks up at her, eyes wide. “Yes, sister dear?” 

Vanya sighs heavily, pinches the bridge of her nose while taking big, deliberate breaths. “Just- I’ve got it, okay? Just hand that over, please” 

“Sure,” Klaus says, after a moment, staring at her oddly. 

Luther turns to look at Ben, watches his furrowed brow and pinched expression. “That’s- weird, right? That’s weird” he says, because he feels like he needs to say something. If he were alive he’d already be singling Vanya out and asking her what’s up. Or maybe not- he knows how to ask as a leader, for the sake the team, the academy, but- as a brother? He’s pretty useless. 

“No, yeah,” Ben starts, not taking his eyes off Vanya. “Yeah, that’s definitely weird” 

Luther hums in agreement, watches as Klaus grabs his neatly stacked bunch of paper and hands it over to Vanya ever so slowly, as if he were approaching a rabid animal. Vanya grabs it with hungry hands, pressing it close to her chest as soon as she has it. 

Then it’s just a matter of watching her angrily pick up her things while Klaus gives her a concerned look. 

Luther sighs, shakes his head side to side. Their family’s mess. Always has been, always will be. He knows they all don’t get along all that well but- he can’t help but hope their problems will magically fix themselves, that they’ll learn and grow and admit they love each other and act like a family’s ought to. He can hope, he can dream. 

Klaus and Ben are keeping secrets. 

Diego kicked Klaus out. 

Vanya’s being- 

_ Weird.  _

Ben paces around the room, crouches down in front of a sprawled-out piece of paper that Vanya hasn’t gotten to yet, and then- 

Then his face goes through some funny motions. First, he’s all raised eyebrows and shocked eyes, shocked lines, shocked expression, and then there’s plain, unmistakable, cruel understanding. 

He doesn’t look happy. 

Luther chokes out some awkward noise, clears his throat. “Ben?” 

Ben doesn’t reply. He keeps reading, and reading, and reading. Klaus is staring at Ben now, too. Probably wondering as well, wondering what the hell Vanya could have written that’d put that expression on their brother’s face. 

“Ben, what is it?” Luther asks, shuffling closer. He thinks he can feel an uncomfortable seed of dread settling somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach. He takes a step forward, then two, three, four, and then he’s crouching, right next to Ben, zeroing in on the innocent piece of paper, reading the words- 

_ My name is Vanya Hargreeves, and this is my story- _

“Oh,” Luther breathes, weakly. “Oh” 

_ My name is Vanya Hargreeves, and this is my story. _

_ We were never a real family. We were our father's creation, family in name, and smile, but not in fact. In the end- _

He looks up, sharply, desperately, and there she is, there she is, there’s Vanya, innocent, and kind, and good- easily the one he enjoyed spending time with the most when they were children, except for Allison, of course, and perhaps Ben- but they all know how that turned out. 

But oh, how did Luther enjoy sitting next to her and basking in on the knowledge that she was safe and familiar, that she didn’t expect anything from him. She was the only one who didn’t expect him to be a leader, the only one who saw him as Luther, and Luther only, whether she acknowledged it or not, whether she was aware of or not. Number One didn’t matter, around her. Number One didn’t matter when she’d play her violin, eyes closed, lazy smile, and he’d sit quietly in a corner, cradling a book, pretending to read, but just pretending. He thinks they both knew he was just pretending. 

She was the only one he didn’t have to worry about. 

She was the only one who never gave him a reason to worry about. 

She was  _ supposed _ to be the only one- 

Luther snaps his eyes shut, counts up to ten, muttered numbers barely leaving his lips. 

When he opens them back again, that piece of paper is still there. Maybe- 

Maybe it’s not what it looks like. 

It can’t be what it looks like. 

Ben’s shifting, frowning, looking immensely disturbed, “Jesus, Vanya” he mutters, taking a step back and away from her. Luther can’t really bring himself to read the rest. 

Klaus makes some sort of aborted hand gesture- to call their attention without alerting Vanya, probably. Luther watches him as he mouths the same words over and over again. He can’t understand. He can’t read lips. He can’t understand. 

Ben seemingly does, shaking his head side to side. “It’s a- shit, I don’t even know” he starts, and Luther thinks he understands now.  _ What is it?  _

That’s what Klaus was asking. 

_ What is it?  _

Good question. 

He looks down again, scans the whole page, not really reading but something near, scanning. 

_ -starved for attention- _

_ -damaged by our upbringing- _

_ -haunted- _

_ -wanted to be loved- _

There’s a lot. There’s far more than he has the mind to comprehend, and scrutinize, and process, and deal with. He feels like he's reading something private and sacred, something that was never meant for any eyes aside from Vanya’s- 

But the way it’s formatted, the introduction- 

“She wants to air out our goddamned dirty laundry” Ben hisses, shocked. 

Luther can just see the way that raises far more questions than answers, for Klaus. He clears his throat, breathes in, “It’s a- I mean, it looks like an autobiography” 

Klaus gasps, disbelieving. He turns to Vanya, mouths again, a mix of awe and bitterness and plain admiration, maybe a healthy dose of fear sprinkled in- 

He mouths, again, and this time, Luther understands clearly. 

_ What a bitch. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!


	6. How's that for shutting up?

Klaus sneaks into Vanya’s bedroom, late at night. 

It’s inevitable. 

Luther almost stops him, but, if he’s being honest here- he's kinda curious, too. The thing is- 

Klaus started poking and prodding, asking a thousand questions about Vanya’s manuscript in just about any way he could think of without actually giving away the fact that what he and Ben told him. Vanya freaked out. Yelled. Very nearly kicked him out of the apartment. 

And Klaus was adamant he didn’t want to be kicked out by two different siblings two nights in a row. So he kept his mouth shut. Apologized and played along. 

Vanya ordered chinese. 

They ate while Luther and Ben stood aside and pretended not to be jealous of the fact they both are alive and can do fun things like eating (-or maybe that was just Luther). 

They ate, and then Vanya decided it was too late already, and pulled out some blankets and a pillow from out of nowhere and set them on top of the couch, for Klaus to sleep in. Then she promptly took her typewriter and bunch of paper with her into her room and shut the door behind her. 

“Are you sure?’” Ben asks, grimacing at Klaus’ unsuccessful attempts to twist Vanya’s doorknob without it squeaking too loudly. “If she wakes up while you’re in there she’s gonna kill you” 

Klaus waves a hand, “I’ll just tell her I was trying to steal her jewelry” 

“I don’t see how that’s better” Luther says, very honestly. 

“Oh, quit whining. She’s not gonna wake up” 

“But what if she does?” 

“The-” Klaus starts, huffing, exasperated. “The jewelry, Luther. I literally just said it” 

Ben frowns, looking down, “Does Vanya even own any jewelry?” 

And- 

Yeah, Vanya doesn’t wear any jewelry. 

Klaus stares at Ben, mouth hanging open. “Shut up,” he says, and that’s that. 

The doorknob keeps squeaking, and then it’s the door itself, and then the floorboards, too, when Klaus starts taking steps, but- somehow, _somehow_ , Vanya doesn’t wake up. Klaus is in and out of the room in an instant, his treasured prize held close to his chest. 

He sits down in front of Vanya’s tiny table, turns on a lamp that casts soft light all around them. Luther and Ben stand close, behind him. 

Together, they stare down at the table, at the mess of paper and paper and paper that Klaus grabbed from Vanya’s bedroom. She must have tidied it some, when she excused herself to sleep- the front page is empty, save by a sentence right in the middle of it. 

_EXTRA ORDINARY_ , it reads, _MY LIFE AS NUMBER SEVEN._

Luther frowns. 

It’s _such_ a dramatic wording. 

He doesn’t think Vanya’s life as Number Seven was particularly bad. Sure, she was often- left aside, ignored, but- but not really. She’s their sister, after all. And besides- 

Dad always made sure they all knew he only ever took them in because of their powers, their usefulness and performance on missions, and Luther got that, he really did, none of them are Reginald’s blood, after all, and he always thought (still thinks) that they were all extremely lucky to have been born with powers- not because of the powers themselves, but because Reginald took them in, made them into brothers and sisters, into a family. 

Training, and fighting crime- those were a small price to pay, for being allowed to stay. A simple thing. Something he never actually enjoyed half as much as he claimed he did, but understood. It was necessary. If they didn’t do it, then no one would. But Vanya- 

She’s ordinary! 

And still got a home. 

Never did a thing that wasn’t sitting in a classroom and enjoying life, playing her violin. 

He wonders what that feels like. 

“Alright,” Klaus says, into the silence. “Let’s read this motherfucker” 

And so they read. 

Most of it is still all out of order, from the stumble Vanya took earlier, pages from further chapters placed near the top and so on. But they get the gist of it pretty quickly, turning page after page as quickly as they’re done reading (which isn’t actually quick at all- it's three people trying to read out of the same tiny print). It’s an ordeal, but they manage. 

It _is_ an autobiography. 

Starting from the little they know about their births and stretching into their teenage years, their adulthood. Luther supposes she’s nowhere near done writing, if only because he doesn’t see a page on the mess that was Ben’s funeral. That deserves a whole chapter on its own. 

The words are surprisingly bitter, feel more like something said out of spite than an actual want to tell, to make sense of the ups and downs of their lives. Most of the content is straight up hurtful, written in a way designed to stab at them, hit them where it’ll hurt the most, all of their insecurities and second guessings exposed out in the open. It makes them all look like assholes, and Vanya, like a saint. 

And, well- 

Not a single word is untrue. 

They did exclude her, from most things, even when it wasn’t directly related to the Academy’s work, they’d still push her away and act coldly around her. But he thinks it was more a result of the fact that she wasn’t there, for the training, for the mission simulations, for the _actual_ missions- she just wasn’t around all that much, and thus, they were far more comfortable around themselves, than with her. 

But Luther never thought- 

Vanya thinks they _hate_ her. 

The idea just never crossed Luther’s mind, that his sister might have grown up believing that he hated her. Day, after day, after day, a lifetime, Luther woke up, muttered his good mornings and good nights, stood by her side, looked out for her, _loved_ her, and she- 

Vanya thinks he hates her. 

And he’s dead now. He’s dead, and he’ll never get the chance to make her understand, explain himself and his behavior, get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. He’s dead now. 

Klaus puts the last page down, and the silence hangs between them, heavy. It’s like none of them know just how to go on after having read what they did. 

Klaus clears his throat, stacks the bunch of paper into a neat pile. He turns to Ben, “I, for one,” he starts, looking to the side. “Think it’s real fucking unfair she only called _you_ an asshole twice” 

Ben takes his sweet time, replying, “She never called any of us assholes” 

“Eh, she might as well have. Would've been kinder” 

Ben scoffs. 

Klaus rubs his hands all over his face, groaning. He pulls out a single pill from that baggy on his pocket and swallows it dry. Luther can’t bring himself to complain. 

“Do you think she’s planning on publishing it?” Ben asks, horrified. 

“God, I fucking hope not” Klaus says, glaring at the thing. Vanya is _so_ planning on publishing it. “Should I burn it? I think I’m going to burn it” 

“Don’t burn it” Luther says, quick, almost on autopilot. 

If Klaus starts talking about burning things, then you get Klaus away from fire. They learned that lesson the hard way when they were fourteen or so. The laundry room had to be renovated. 

Klaus whines, “Why not?” 

He doesn’t reply. 

Klaus seems to forget about it, instead standing up from his chair and looking around, pacing. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna steal her jewelry. That’ll teach her” 

“I thought we established Vanya doesn’t own any jewelry” Ben says, way too calm and still when contrasted with Klaus’ butchered movements. He crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Then I’m going to steal her- uh,” Klaus looks around wildly, spots a potted plant and lifts it up roughly, spilling some wet soil into the ground. “Her houseplant! I’m going to steal her houseplant, see how that makes her feel!” 

“Klaus, you’re being ridiculous” Ben says. 

Klaus rolls his eyes, puts the plant back where he found it. 

The silence stretches, again, and Luther doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“You know what?” Klaus says, after an eternity. “Fuck Vanya, I’m out of here” and he grabs his jacket, puts on his shoes. He snoops around the living room, pocketing anything and everything that looks even remotely expensive, anything that'll be worth something on a pawnshop. 

Luther wants to scream at him to stop. 

He doesn’t. 

He feels as if the words are stuck somewhere in his throat, impossibly out of reach. 

Idly, Luther pushes down the memory of an eight-year-old Diego, scowling stubbornly, refusing to speak just on the off chance that he’d stutter and make a fool of himself. 

He more or less snaps out of it when he catches sight of Klaus, with Vanya’s fridge open wide, holding a pill bottle and squinting at it. Vanya’s pill bottle. “Klaus,” Luther hisses, walking closer. “What the hell?” 

“Shh,” Klaus mumbles, never taking his eyes off the bottle. “I think this is the good stuff” 

“Klaus, you’re not stealing our sister’s medication” Luther says, and he realizes he’s- _surprised_. The idea of Klaus doing something like this never actually occurred to him. He’ll never doubt, even for one second, that Klaus can and will steal from them, strip them off their valuables. But- 

_Their mentally ill sister’s medication? The one she can’t go a single day without or else she’ll lose her mind and maybe even end up hurting others-? Herself?_

Dad and Pogo were very clear, while growing up, that none of them should ever mess around with Vanya’s pills, take them away from her. She needs them, more than she could ever need anything else. They’re a part of her. They’re life or death. 

“Put that down” 

“Why?” 

“Because- shit, do I even have to explain?” Luther blurts, incredulous. “Are you that selfish?” 

Klaus squares his jaw, pushes the fridge’s door shut forcefully. He doesn’t put the pills down. “Maybe I am, Luther” he says, bitterly. 

Luther shakes his head, “You’re not” 

“Whatever, I’m leaving” Klaus says, breathing out, looking anywhere but at Luther’s eyes. He goes to step towards the door, but then Ben’s there, blocking his path. 

“Klaus,” he starts, “You haven’t even told Vanya about-” 

He trails off, shoots Luther a pointed look. 

Klaus barks out a laugh, a bitter, incredulous sound. “I’m not telling her” he points towards the table, the manuscript. “You saw that thing. I’m not giving her anymore material” 

“You don’t know if she’d-” 

“No, I do know!” Klaus says, almost shouting. “This family is so fucked up! We all hate each other- if I try to tell her she’s going to think I’m crazy and go cry about it in her stupid book” 

Luther wants to assure him that’s not what’s going to happen. 

But he doesn’t know that, does he? 

Things are not pointing in the best direction. 

“So what?” Ben says. “If she thinks you’re crazy then she thinks you’re crazy, but I think we owe it to our fucked up family to tell each other when one of us dies, Klaus” 

“God, you’re impossible” Klaus breathes, exasperated and mad. “Did you see what happened with Diego? Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen with her” 

“ _So what?_ ” Ben repeats, louder this time. “They’re going to find out eventually, anyway, and when they do- don't you think they’ll be glad it was from you and not from the tabloids? They deserve to hear it now, and they deserve to hear it from you” 

“Well, Vanya doesn’t deserve shit after that thing she wrote” 

“Maybe not but she’s still our sister and you can’t just-” 

“Shut up!” Klaus yells, “ _Shut up, shut up, shut up-!_ ” 

“No!” Ben yells back. “No, fuck you Klaus, I’m not shutting up!” 

Klaus groans, lifts his hands up to cover his ears. The pill bottle rattles. 

He seems to remember it. 

It’s- 

He opens it, pours nearly half of it into his palm. He takes long strides towards Vanya’s kitchen sink while shoving the pills into his mouth, and then he’s gulping them down with water, one by one by one. 

Luther stands there, wide eyed. “Klaus,” he says, fearfully. 

Ben makes a noise between laughing and crying. “God, you’re so stupid” 

Klaus drops the bottle with the remaining pills into the sink. It clangs loudly. “How’s that for shutting up?” he says, cryptically- or maybe not. 

Is he trying to shut down his powers? With the pills? Make Ben go away so he doesn’t have to listen to him and his demands? Luther thinks that’s exactly what’s going on. That number of pills though- 

“How many did you take?” Ben barks. 

Klaus shrugs. 

“Should we-” Luther starts, but then remembers both Ben and he are dead. “I mean- Klaus, I think you need to call an ambulance while you’re awake” 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic” Klaus says, rolling his eyes. It looks like he’s going to say something else, his mouth half-open, but then- 

Vanya’s bedroom’s door snaps open, the light turns on. She steps out, her brow furrowed. “Klaus?” 


	7. Don't you dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It didn't take me two months to update, aren't you proud of me? :)

It’s Luther’s fault. 

It’s his fault. 

He isn’t even sure how, exactly, but he’s a hundred percent sure this is his fault. 

It’s not like he can just up and blame Klaus for doing the stupid thing when they’ve spent the past day together. If he were by himself then it’d be a different story, but he’s- he’s not, and Luther- 

Luther let his brother steal their sister’s medication, right under his nose. Luther let his brother take most of said medication, at once, right under his nose. 

_ What kind of shit brother-? _

_ Leader-?  _

“Klaus, are you- are you okay?” Vanya asks, her voice hesitant and nearly afraid. Luther still jumps a foot in the air, startled. “I heard you, uh, shouting?” 

Klaus takes one look at Vanya, then crosses his arms over his chest, looks away. 

Vanya tilts her head to the side. Then she’s looking down, toying with her t-shirt's hem. The thing is large, long, almost reaches her knees. She starts twisting it around between her fingers, pulling the fabric up and down, and suddenly, suddenly, Luther can only see her as a ten-year-old, chubby and naïve, clutching her skirt like a lifeline. 

Old habits die hard, he guesses. 

“You know you can tell me anything” she finally says, softly. 

Ben snorts, mutters something under his breath. Luther winces. 

“Right,” Klaus says. “Right” 

“I know we’ve never been all that close, but-” 

“I read your book” 

Silence. 

The sort of silence that is easy to drown in, be consumed by. 

Tense, and dreadful, and anxious. Like the silent meals in the Academy each morning after one of them went missing, or died, or simply left. 

“You-” 

“Yeah” 

“Klaus,” Vanya says, very slowly, and she’s clenching her jaw. It’s easy to pinpoint the exact moment she spots her manuscript laying on the table, the neat pile of paper. 

Ben walks around her, plops down in some armchair. Getting ready for the show. 

Klaus barely glances at him. Keeps staring at Vanya. “Yes, sister dear?” 

“That-” Vanya says, stutters. “That wasn’t for you to read” 

“Oh, wasn’t it? I didn’t notice. Y’know, there was a whole chapter about me, so I thought-” 

Vanya huffs, interrupts. “I asked you not to read it, Klaus. I- I  _ explicitly _ asked you not to read it” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Klaus says, dismissive. “Going back to my thing, uh- you've got some stuff wrong, did you know that? Like, like-” he starts, and smiles all wide and open, with an edge. “That time when were twelve? I didn’t fall! I didn’t fall, Vanya! Dad pushed me down the fucking stairs!” 

“He-  _ what? _ ” Luther blurts, horrified. 

Klaus turns towards him, shushes him, nearly hisses. 

Luther turns to Ben instead, pleading. 

Ben shrugs, bites his lip. 

Alright. 

Alright, Luther thinks. 

He’ll- 

He’ll push this one thing away, deal with it later. 

“So?” Klaus hisses, glaring at Vanya. 

And- 

And it’s like Vanya didn’t even hear a single word Klaus said. She keeps frowning, looking down at her manuscript. “It was in my bedroom” she says, as if she was fully expecting it but somehow still can’t believe the words she’s saying. “You- you  _ broke  _ into my bedroom while I was asleep” 

Klaus huffs, stares at her. “Who cares where it was” 

“I care!” Vanya hisses, then lowers voice. “I- I sleep in there, Klaus. I care. You can’t just barge in, and-” 

“Oh my God, Vanya-  _ so _ not the point” 

“What’s the point then?” 

“The point is-” Klaus starts, leaning forward. “Are you planning on publishing that crap?” 

Vanya takes a step back, and at the very least she’s got the decency of looking a fraction of guilty, maybe remembering half the stuff she wrote. “Maybe. I haven’t made up my mind yet” 

Klaus laughs, all humorless and dry. “Why the hell would you even  _ think _ about-” 

“Maybe I’m tired of living under your shadow, ever  _ think _ about that?” 

“ _ Under our- _ ” Klaus echoes, all whiny and incredulous. “Vanya, nobody gives a shit about the Academy anymore, what are you even talking about?” 

“People care!, Klaus” Vanya says. “They care. They’ve always cared and they always will care” 

“That’s only because the old man keeps paying all the papers to-” 

Vanya huffs, looks down and then swiftly back up. A strand of hair falls off her ponytail. “It’s not about that, Klaus” she says, very resolutely. “It’s-” 

“What?” 

“All my life, ever since I can remember-” Vanya starts, looking to the side. Her words are quick and cutting, angry, tired. “ _ All  _ my life, I’ve been told I’m less than you. I’ve been told you’re all that matters and that I shouldn’t give shit about my own life because- because, how could I? I’m ordinary. I’m useless. I’m- I’m Number Seven, for God’s sake! I’m less than nothing!” 

And –yeah, that’s more or less the whole theme of the manuscript. More or less what the whole a hundred and something pages they just read were about- but, still, to hear it out of her lips, told with such certainty? It’s- 

Luther feels like this is his fault, too. One way or another. 

He never knew Vanya felt this. 

“Wow, okay” Klaus mutters, flatly. “Dad really did a number on you, V” 

“Oh, shut up” 

Klaus whines, hums, sighs, makes some noise just to acknowledge she spoke. 

The silence stretches, once again, and Luther takes the opening to clear his throat, shuffle forward awkwardly. “Hey, uh- about that ambulance?” 

Klaus gives him a death glare. 

Which- fair, fair. 

At least Vanya’s awake now. 

She can probably take it from there when Klaus inevitably collapses. 

“At least ask her when she’s going to publish that thing” Ben says, with an exasperated air, after a moment. “The way she speaks about you- you're gonna need a new identity by then” 

Klaus doesn’t even bother to reply, he just echoes the question. 

“I don’t know,” Vanya says, harshly. “When I’m finished” 

“Awesome” Klaus breathes, while clapping his hands together. His tone gets all chirpy and fake, overly enthusiastic. “Awesome, great. Well- I’ve had fun, sister dear, but I’m gonna call it a night. I’m sure you’ve got buttloads of new material right here, so you just go ahead and-” 

He goes to step forward and away, towards the door. 

He- 

He wobbles, stumbles backwards and just barely manages to flail around wildly and latch onto Vanya’s kitchen counter. “Shit,” he says. “Okay, shit” 

“Klaus?” 

“I’m- I’m okay!” he announces, and straightens up, lets go of the counter. 

Luther watches with some sort of anxious anticipation, a morbid fascination, something sick and shameful. Klaus is not okay. He is very obviously not okay. His breathing turns heavy, ragged. 

It’s his fault. 

It’s his fault. 

It’s just a matter of hoping Vanya will catch up before Klaus can walk out of the apartment. 

“Are you sure?” 

Klaus breathes out, hisses quietly. “Yeah, I’m just- I'm just dandy, sis” 

Vanya frowns, steps towards him. Klaus flinches back. They all pretend not to notice the hurt and regret flash briefly across her face. “Hey, if- if you’re not feeling great you could still stay the night, I really don’t mind. And if you don’t wanna talk to me, I get it, alright? We can-” 

She leans forward, twists her head. 

And there it is- 

_ “Are those my pills?”  _

Klaus groans, runs a hand over his face. “They were with the butter, Vanya. Who the fuck puts their pills with the butter?” 

“It’s the only place where-” she starts, exasperated, as if she’s had this conversation before. Maybe she has, with someone else. But then- then she cuts herself off abruptly, shoots Klaus an accusatory glare, lips pursed together. “Why were you in my butter?” 

An offended gasp, “Don’t deflect the question” 

Vanya groans, does the smart thing and ignores him. She walks towards the sink, picks up the half empty bottle. “How many pills did you take? The max dose is like six daily” 

“Oh,” Klaus says, and he drops some tension off his body. He stares at Vanya and the pill bottle, all surprised and full of awe. “Yeah,” he says, very, very slowly. Too slowly. “Yeah, I think I took a lot more than six” 

Vanya puts the bottle down, stares at him incredulously. 

Klaus keeps nodding, mostly to himself, probably- a slow, repetitive motion. His eyes are unfocused. “I also took some oxy earlier, so-” 

“Oxy,” Luther echoes, flat, but Klaus ignores him. “ _ Oxy _ ” 

Ben shrugs again. He’s starting to look a tiny bit disgruntled, staring at Klaus with a mix of resignation and fear, shame. Longing, love. 

Luther looks away. 

Vanya opens her mouth. Closes it back up. 

Klaus lifts up both hands in front of himself, somewhere close to his chest. They’re- they’re shaking, trembling ridiculously. “Huh,” Klaus mutters, frowning. “That’s probably not a good sign” 

Vanya shakes her head, stares at him with something horrified. “ _ Jesus Christ, Klaus- _ ” 

_ “What?”  _

Vanya’s voice goes high and whiny, almost impossible to understand. “You- what were you even thinking? Are you okay?” 

Klaus puts his hands back down, sighs. “Uh, well- not gonna lie, you’re looking kinda blurry around the edges right now and that usually doesn’t happen all that often” 

“Okay,” Vanya says. “Okay, that’s it, you- we're going to the hospital” 

Klaus laughs, a twisted sound that comes out more like a cough. “I’m not going anywhere  _ near _ a hospital, alright? I’m fine” he says, and he goes to walk away, but he wobbles, again, stumbles and loses his footing. Vanya just barely manages to grab his arm and hold him upright. 

Klaus- 

Klaus  _ whines _ . 

A low, childish sound, petulant. “Let go of me,” he says, breathy, weak. There’s an edge there, too. He doesn’t want to be touched, for whatever reason. 

Vanya lets go of him. 

Klaus stumbles away from her, takes a step, two, three, four, then he- 

He pukes his guts out. Just- 

Throws up, right in the middle of Vanya’s living room. 

Luther flinches back, jumps away. 

He’s- 

He turns to Ben. “That’s- that’s good, right?” 

Ben’s standing up already. He tilts his head, twists his mouth. “Yeah, I- I think so? I don’t-” 

Klaus drops to his knees, crouches right next to his puddle of vomit, and he just- 

He breathes. 

He breathes, and it seems like it takes him a whole lot of effort to do it. 

“I’m calling 911” Vanya announces. 

Klaus whips his head up, “Don’t you fucking dare, Vanya. Don’t you dare” 

They stare at each other, a silent battle. 

* 

Vanya calls 911. 

* 

Not fifteen minutes later there’s the sound of sirens, and Luther comes to find out he absolutely cannot stand the sound anymore. It’s one of the very last things he ever heard before he died. 

But- 

But the ambulance comes, the paramedics knock on the door. 

And it’s weird, because he somehow pictured they’d drag Klaus out kicking and screaming, because he hates hospitals so much, but he’s not kicking and he’s not screaming. 

He’s breathing. 

That’s the only thing he does. Breathes, and breathes, and breathes, curls up in a corner, blinks sluggishly around, blinks up at Vanya. 

He’s- 

He stopped reacting to Ben, and him, a couple minutes in. 

He just can’t see them. 

The mere thought is enough to scare him- and not just because if Klaus can’t see them then no one can, but because if Klaus can’t see them then he must have swallowed more pills than- 

Than what, anyway? 

Luther hasn’t been around long enough to tell. 

The ambulance comes, the paramedics knock on the door. They take one look at Klaus and promptly take him away, load him into the car. Vanya rides with them. Ben and Luther follow. 


	8. I'm sick of it

Klaus gets, naturally, put on suicide watch. 

72 hours. 

“No,” Klaus says, the second he gains enough consciousness to be more or less aware of his surroundings. “Like hell I’m staying here. I’m- fuck you, I’m out of here” 

And he goes to stand up, awkwardly attempting to crawl out of the bed’s stiff sheets. But the doctor, bless her heart, levels him with a frankly impressive glare that has even Luther cowering. Klaus freezes. Leans back on the pillows and stays very still until the doctor doesn’t look all that murderous anymore. 

“Mr. Hargreeves,” she says, slowly, as if she’s talking to someone very, very stupid. “You’re very lucky your sister found you when she did. I’m not about to risk all of her hard work by letting you out when you might still be a danger to yourself” 

Klaus blinks up at her. 

“There’ll be a psychiatrist with you shortly, to evaluate you” 

“Fun,” Klaus mutters, looking away. 

She carries on as if he didn’t speak. “In the meantime, your sister is very worried about you, and she wants to see you- hasn't shut up about it the whole night, actually. Should I send her in?” 

And yeah, yeah, it was borderline  _ painful _ to watch, Vanya pacing around the waiting room, sitting in one chair and then another, getting up for coffee, getting up to stare longingly at the payphone just outside the emergency room before turning around on her heels without placing a single call. Getting up to ask about Klaus. Again. And again. And again. The poor, poor nurses- 

Klaus looks up, looks away. “Yeah, whatever. I don’t mind” 

He doesn’t look all that convinced. 

A moment passes. 

“Perfect!” the doctor says, sporting a flat smile. It’s like she knows Klaus doesn’t really want Vanya anywhere near him but doesn’t care either way. “I’ll have someone bring her in!” and with that, she’s gone. The door snaps shut a little too loudly. Luther flinches. 

They’re left alone. 

“Klaus?” Ben starts, edging closer to the bed. 

But Klaus doesn’t- 

He barely even reacts, to the sound of his voice. 

He frowns, looks around the room while blinking rapidly, staring at each corner without lingering to long on any specific spots. It’s like he’s looking right through Ben, and him, and the creepy ghost moaning by the foot of the bed who might or might not have died in the middle of an open-heart surgery. 

Luther figures no amount of stomach pumps can fully get rid of the insane number of pills he took. They’ll have to wait for the effects to wear off on their own before they can talk. 

But Ben  _ freezes _ . 

Stands very, very still. 

The sort of still that only came right before the Horror sprung forward. 

Luther side eyes him, wonders what would happen if the Horror decided to come out and start dismembering to its heart’s desire. It doesn’t have a physical body anymore, so it’s not like he has to worry about the living. But- Do they really want to find out if it can tear through ghost flesh? Maim and mangle and kill what’s dead, kill it all over again? 

(An image flashes through his mind. 

Ben, a mess of gore and meat, pieces of him and pieces of the Horror merging together into a single grotesque thing. Shapeless. Unnatural angles. Twisted insides). 

Luther lurches forward, clasps a hand over Ben’s shoulder. 

Ben- 

He deflates, lets his shoulder sag. “He can’t see us,” he whispers, hoarse. 

“No, but,” Luther clears his throat even though he doesn’t need to. “Didn’t he always say he couldn’t see ghosts while he’s high? Maybe the pills are still-” 

Ben shakes his head rapidly, turns around to face him. “But it’s different! With- with me” 

“What do you mean?” 

He keeps shaking his head, weakly. “I don’t- I don’t know. He always can see me. No matter how drunk or high, he always can see me, Luther. Always” 

“Oh” 

Ben goes to stand all of two feet away from Klaus’ bed, and Luther has to admit, it  _ is _ disconcerting, to see Klaus looking right through him. Especially so if what Ben’s saying is true. 

It raises so,  _ so _ many questions about Klaus, and his powers. 

They’re not passive. 

They’re very obviously not passive, like they all thought all throughout their lives. 

He’s choosing to use them, whether he’s aware of it or not. Picking and choosing which ghosts he allows himself to see and which ones he doesn’t. Maybe being so high he can barely walk actually helps, in the sense that he doesn’t have to fight to keep a thousand ghosts away because the drugs do it for him, easy, inebriating him and incapacitating him, letting him loosen up and relax, cutting off most of his power. Allowing him to bring Ben forward and be done with the whole deal. Barely any effort. 

But then why wouldn’t he be doing that exact same thing now? 

“Maybe it’s just Vanya’s pills?” Luther offers, awkwardly, because Ben looks deeply disturbed. He’s got no other explanation. “Dad always said they were pretty strong” 

Ben frowns. “Well, heroine’s pretty strong too, and this never happened before” 

Luther groans. “They must be different, then. What even are they? I bet they have something Klaus’ never taken before” 

“Doubt it” 

“Ben, c’mon. I’m  _ sure _ Klaus hasn’t-” 

There’s a hesitant knock on the door. 

It swings open, not a moment later. 

Vanya shuffles into the room. “Hi,” she says, her eyes very large. 

Klaus shifts uncomfortably, shoots Vanya a look that aims for resentful but lands on tired. 

Vanya shuts the door behind her carefully, walks slowly, slowly, slowly until she reaches the little fold out plastic chair someone propped up against a wall, near the bed. She sits down, folds her hands across her lap and stares at them. 

It’s stupid. 

It’s stupid, because Luther thinks he can rationalize the situation and reach the shocking conclusion that Vanya and Klaus are mad at each other for a thousand reasons. There’s the manuscript, for instance. Or the pills, or the lying, or the sneaking around. There are reasons. There are a lot of reasons and none of those reasons have a single thing to do with him. But Luther still feels- 

He feels  _ guilty. _

He did something wrong. He failed. 

Klaus is lying on a hospital bed, and Vanya won’t look up, and Ben’s frozen to the spot, and Luther- 

Luther is at fault. One way or another, he is at fault. He may not be Number One anymore, but he’s still their brother- their eldest, if not in fact then in thought. He is their brother, and this tense silence, palpable, broken, is his fault. 

“I called Diego” Vanya blurts, out of nowhere. 

And Klaus smiles something twisted, lets the back of his head fall back against the headboard. He laughs. “You did, now, did you? Bet he’s gonna love my little cry for attention. What did he say?” 

Vanya hesitates. There’s worry in her eyes. “Well, he wasn’t home, actually. But- a guy picked up? I think he’s his landlord or something. He said he was gonna send Diego over as soon as he came back” 

Klaus hums. “Figures” 

Vanya chews her lip, looks at him. “I tried calling Allison but her assistant wouldn’t put me through. I’m gonna try again later, though. And I thought- I thought about calling Luther but I figured he was going to tell Dad and I didn’t know if you wanted-” 

Klaus chokes out the most pitiful, painful noise. It’s animal-like, startling. He snaps his eyes shut forcefully, like maybe if he can't see then Vanya won’t see him either, won’t ask anything of him. 

Vanya freezes, and Luther freezes too. 

“I- uh,” She starts, awkwardly. “Should I have called him?” 

Klaus shakes his head. “No, no, I- no” 

“Oh, okay” 

The silence stretches. 

Vanya fidgets with a loose thread in her shirt’s hem, pulls at it. “Is everything okay, Klaus? I mean, apart from-” and she gestures vaguely around, at the hospital room. 

Klaus shrugs. 

He looks very small, in the bed. Like a child. 

The thought is disturbing, but this? This is familiar. This Luther knows how to navigate. Klaus, shrinking, sunken, ashamed. Ben and Vanya, the rest of them, surrounding him, begging for an explanation. Begging for the answer to a question they won’t ever dare to ask. 

Luther knows what’s next. 

They will talk, walking on eggshells. They will avoid the topic for as long as they can. But then someone will snap, and yell- Diego, most likely, when he gets Vanya’s message and shows up. He’ll yell, and Klaus will yell, and then when they’re done yelling, they’ll both pretend nothing’s wrong. 

Luther knows what’s next. Klaus opens his mouth and he waits for the self-deprecating jokes, the weak attempt at humor- that desperate need to have their family thinking about everything and anything but him and his mistakes. Klaus opens his mouth, but- 

No joke comes out. “Vanya?” 

“Yeah?” Vanya prompts, leaning towards him, her hands clutching her knees. 

Klaus looks very small, in the bed. His voice comes out even smaller. “Luther’s dead, Vanya” 

A beat. 

The room freezes. 

“Shit,” Ben mutters, and Klaus’ eyes snap briefly towards him without really settling. 

Vanya clenches her jaw. Looks at Klaus with a mix of emotions in her face, bitter and resentful. She doesn’t believe him. But still, she- “Tell me” 

So Klaus does. “It was a mission, Van. I don’t- I don’t really know exactly what happened, but I think there was a chemical thing? I- Dad sent him without any gear! Alone! And he just- he-” 

His breathing turns heavy, ragged. 

Vanya drags her chair closer to him, clasps her hands around his. “It’s okay, Klaus. Don’t- it’s- it’s okay” 

“No, it’s not okay!” Klaus hisses, snapping his hands away. “How can you say that? Luther is dead!” 

They stare at each other. 

Luther feels like he’s somewhere far, far away. 

Klaus can’t even see him right now. 

Eavesdropping at its finest. 

Vanya looks at Klaus like she’s looking at a child throwing a tantrum after a nightmare, pitying, annoyed, wanting help but not knowing how. “The doctor said she was gonna send someone in to see you” she starts, carefully. “Maybe you could try talking to them? Really talking? I know it can be a little awkward at first but-” 

Klaus laughs bitterly, bites off a choked noise that might have been a sob. “You don’t believe me” 

“No, no, it’s not-” Vanya says, hurried. “It’s not that, Klaus. It’s just-” 

“Those are literally my powers, Vanya!” Klaus babbles, loud and wavering. “I don’t- I don’t understand why any of you wouldn’t believe me when those are literally my powers! I’m the  _ Séance _ , for god’s sake! I see the dead people! That’s my whole thing!” 

“Klaus-” 

“Ever since Ben died it’s like you just collectively decided I was a good for nothing idiot who can’t tell up from down, and you know what, Vanya? I’m sick of it! Even in your stupid book-” a pained moan, resigned. “I’m not lying. I wasn’t lying the night of the funeral, and I’m not- I'm not lying now” 

Vanya stares at him, wide eyed. “Klaus” she says, like an opening, but doesn’t say anything else. 

Ben breathes out very slowly, runs a hand over his hair and then promptly grabs his jacket’s hood and shoves it over his head a little too harshly. 

The ghost with the open chest glares at him, wanders off. 

Klaus rubs at his eyes, and Luther notices for the first time the wetness in them, unshed tears. “Whatever, it’s not like it matters” he mutters, bitterly. “I’ll talk to the shrink- if I act crazy enough, I can probably convince them to give me drugs” 

“God, Klaus” Vanya breathes, to herself, mostly. 

Klaus shrugs. 

But Vanya sits tall, with her back very straight, and she looks at Klaus with renewed energy. “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” She says, first and foremost, and Klaus snorts. She ignores him. “I- I would believe you, really. Because you’re right! You’re right, those are your powers! But, Klaus-” 

“ _ What? _ ” 

Vanya sighs. 

She leans forward towards Klaus’ bedside table, reaching blindly. And then- 

A remote. 

She turns on the dingy little tv in the corner of the room, goes channel through channel until she lands on a random newscast. She turns the volume up high. “It started about half an hour ago” 

“What? I don’t-” Klaus starts, frowning. Luther wants to ask what the hell they’re supposed to be looking at, too. It’s just the news, mildly boring. Not relevant at the moment. 

Vanya grunts, “Just wait” 

And sure enough, a banner covering half the screen- 

_ Spaceboy goes to space! Sir Reginald Hargreeves announces exploratory mission for former Umbrella Academy member.  _

The anchor babbles nonsensically about the Academy for a couple moments, shows pictures from their best photoshoots, footage from their most dangerous missions. A couple stills of Luther’s face, his face hidden behind a domino mask. An introduction. Then it’s a press conference, Reginald- 

_ “Number One can no longer serve this city, it is too polluted, too fragile. He has made the noble decision to tackle the problem at its root, to watch out for threats in the only sensible vantage point that-” _

“Shut that off!” Klaus blurts, wrestling Vanya for the remote. 

The tv gets turned off. 

Luther pretends he can see his reflection on the screen. 

“What the fuck?” Klaus says, high and airy. “What the fuck? What the  _ fuck? _ ” 

“See?” Vanya starts, almost hesitantly. “I don’t think Luther’s dead, Klaus. Dad’s sending him to- space? I guess? So- I mean, I'm not saying you’re lying, but-” 

“Vanya, please shut up” 

She complies immediately. It’s a little sad. 

Ben shuffles to his side, reaches for him but doesn’t really touch him. Leaves an arm awkwardly outstretched between them. “Luther, I- shit, I can’t believe he’d-” 

He trails off. 

Luther shakes his head. 

Now,  _ this _ is a new kind of low. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> babes, your comments give me life


	9. Wish I was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahah guess who started ignoring her outline again

Luther stares at the newspaper in front of him. 

_Spaceboy goes to space!_

That seems to be the phrase everyone decided to latch onto, magazines and newspapers alike. More than half of them have those same exact words printed on their front pages in bright, bold letters. Though his own personal favorite headline has got to be: _Extraterrestrial threats? Frightening implications in latest Umbrella Academy announcement._

People- 

People seem to be really into this new- _mission_ , of his. 

Dad must have paid good money, to have the entire city talking about him. 

It almost makes him wish he were alive and actually going on that mission, up, and up, and up into outer space, seeing the moon and the stars, the never-ending blue. Almost. He’d be a hero in the eyes of the masses- more so than he is right now, anyway. He’d be known for something other than punching a bunch of petty criminals in the face when he was twelve. He’d be- 

He’d be doing the one and only thing he ever let himself hope for, since he was a little kid. 

“Are you okay, Luther?” Ben asks softly, beside him. 

Luther shrugs. “I guess” 

Ben stays quiet for a couple seconds, maybe waiting for a reaction other than simple acknowledgement. But Luther doesn’t really have it in him to have a heart to heart right now. “Right,” Ben mutters, awkwardly. 

There’s a magazine tucked in a corner of the rack, one of those colorful abominations that Klaus and Allison were always reading when they were teenagers, full of made-up gossip and blurry candids of people no one really cares about all that much. A good chunk of the front page is covered by that stupid phrase, same as every other magazine in there- _Spaceboy goes to space!_

But then the rest of the page- 

It’s a picture of him. Fifteen years old, sporting a smile that wasn’t fake all the way yet. Before Ben died, of course. He remembers that photoshoot. 

Next to him, badly cropped and pasted to his side- 

Allison. 

Fifteen years old, sporting a smile that wasn’t fake all the way yet. 

In the bottom of the thing, another picture, circled in both bright pink and bright yellow. Allison, but a recent picture this time, a still from that one movie that came out last year- Luther actually sneaked out by himself to watch the premiere. Pogo cached him on his way back. Promised he wouldn’t tell. 

_Allison breaks silence about brother's space mission - ‘I didn’t know about it'_

It’s not like Luther can pick up the thing and actually read the article, but he’s willing to bet that one flimsy sentence is all there is. He can picture it, Allison, on a coffee run, not awake all the way yet, a horde of paparazzi shoving cameras on her face. 

_“Allison, does this mean the Umbrella Academy is coming back together?”_

_“Allison, will you be involved in any way?”_

_“Allison, do you think Number One is fit for this type of mission?”_

_“Allison, when’s the last time you spoke to your brother?”_

_“Allison, Allison, Allison-”_

She, of course, would’ve been forced to say something- anything at all. Dad always did urge them not to be rude to paparazzi under any circumstances. They’re fully capable of ruining a person’s career with a single photo or bad interview. And- Allison wouldn’t want the bad press. Not after fighting so hard to disentangle herself from the mess that was the Umbrella Academy, and especially not now, considering she hasn’t been all that active since her movie last year- this may be the third or fourth time Luther’s heard of her in the last couple months- o _f course,_ she was forced to say something. 

So she said the one thing she knew for certain. 

_‘I didn’t know about it’_

Luther stares at the magazine cover, and wonders how she really feels about him- about his _space mission_. Does she buy into Dad’s words? Does she think him more of a hero now? 

He’s not sure he ever wants to find out. 

Ben shifts beside him, takes half a step away from him, leaning to the side. “Hey, is that-?” 

Luther turns to look and there he is. “Oh, yeah” 

Diego. 

Storming into the waiting room with heavy, hulking steps. He’s dressed in black head to toe, and Luther can spy at least five different knife holsters with bits of shiny metal poking through. The size of the scar on his head still puts him on edge, still makes him wonder what the hell it is that Diego is doing that left him hurt that badly. He’s scowling. Looks angry. And on top of it all- 

His right eye is bruised, almost swollen shut. 

His knuckles, too. 

Luther sighs, “ _Jesus_ ,” he mutters, and Ben half-whimpers a frustrated sound next to him. 

Diego marches to the front desk, speaks dryly and bleak. “Klaus Hargreeves” 

The receptionist blinks up at him. 

“Klaus Hargreeves” Diego repeats. 

“Uh,” the receptionist starts, staring at Diego’s- _everything_ , with a mildly fearful expression, distrustful. “Do you need, uh- someone to see you? The ER is in the other side of the building but I can give you a form and when you’re done with it you can give it to-” 

Diego sputters, frowning, exasperated. “What-? No. My- my _brother_ , Klaus Hargreeves. He was admitted last night for an overdose, I think our sister brought him in” 

“Oh, yeah- yeah, Hargreeves” a pensive frown, pinched eyebrows. “I remember your sister. Hold on, let me just-” she drags a big notebook to her lap, checks a page, and another, and another, and another, and then she’s muttering under her breath, making a face. “I do have a Hargreeves, but- uh, it’s-” 

“What?” 

“F- Four? Four Hargreeves?” 

Diego rolls his eyes. Somehow, the line of his shoulders becomes sharper, impossible tense. “Yeah, that’s him. Where is he?” 

She doesn’t stop frowning, and when she opens her mouth, Luther assumes she’s going to do that whole song and dance she did with Vanya when they first came in, about IDs and proving they’re actually related before letting random people into a patient’s room. But then- 

Her eyes flick to the side, to the newspaper rack near the door. 

He can practically see the gears turning in her head. 

_Number One!_

_Number Four!_

_Which one’s the one with the knives?!_

She turns to look at Diego, this time with open admiration in her eyes. “He’s, uh- room 204. Up the stairs and to the right” 

“Thank you,” Diego says, sighing, rolling his eyes once more. He walks away, disappears up the stairs. 

They watch him go. 

The receptionist bangs the nape of her neck against the back of her chair as soon as he’s out of sight, breathes out something that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. 

“Well,” Ben says, quirking an eyebrow. “That was something” 

Luther winces, sighs. "I mean, at least he’s here” 

“Yeah, I guess” Ben replies, idly, eying the receptionist with an air of distrust. “Should we follow him? Klaus is probably done with the psychiatrist by now, anyway” 

Luther nods. 

Ben leads the way. 

He takes one last look at the magazines and the newspapers before following him, at all the half-truths and downright lies about him that are being told for anyone to hear. He sees his own picture, the golden child, young and as happy as he could ever be, no gore and blood staining him. He sees the praise and the admiration, the reverence- something that isn’t worship but might as well be. 

_Number One will save the world._

He’s feeling something. 

He’s not exactly sure what it is. 

* 

Diego and Vanya talk in hushed whispers next to Klaus’ door. 

Diego does a whole lot of scowling, and Vanya does a whole lot of shrugging helplessly. 

It lasts for a minute or two, and then Diego is storming into the room, leaving Vanya hanging halfway through a sentence. Luther winces, shuffles in after Ben and Vanya. 

“Oh,” Klaus mutters, flatly. “You’re here. Yay” 

Vanya shuts the door. 

“Klaus,” Diego spits, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Diego,” Klaus replies, matching Diego’s tone and expression, mocking. He spies Diego’s swollen eye and raises an eyebrow, quirks his lips into a half-smile. 

Diego scoffs. “Don’t play dumb, you idiot. What the hell happened?” 

Klaus hums, stretches lazily across the pillows. There’s a faint tremor to his movement that wasn’t there before. Luther wonders how the psych evaluation went. “Didn’t our dear sister tell you already?” he shoots Vanya a sharp smile, like a shark’s. “She does love a good story, after all” 

He means the manuscript, of course. 

Diego frowns, throws Vanya a questioning look. 

Vanya sputters, shifts awkwardly in place. “It’s just- uh, nothing. Never mind. Nothing” 

Klaus keeps smiling, open, and daring, and so very hurt. 

Vanya shrinks in on herself, glares at Klaus with all the intensity she can probably muster. 

But Diego rolls his eyes, no doubt assumes their little scene to be unimportant, something that doesn’t actually concern him. If only he knew half the stuff Vanya wrote about him- “Klaus, man” Diego says, carefully. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have a fucking death wish?” 

Klaus shrugs. “Not particularly, I don’t think so, no” 

“So? What the hell?” 

Another shrug. 

Diego huffs, glares. “Seriously, man. First you show up to my place trying to tell me-” he stutters to a halt, briefly looks at Vanya. “-y’know, the crap you were trying to tell me, and now this? What’s your problem? If you need attention that badly you can just say so” 

“Oh my God, Diego” Klaus breathes, annoyed. “Fuck you” 

Luther kind of agrees. 

Vanya frowns, looks at Diego. “What was he-? I mean, the Luther thing? ‘Cause he told me already” 

Diego gasps, incredulous, and then he’s somehow glaring more viciously than he was before. “You told her already!” and Klaus stares at him blankly, expressionless. “What, you plan on telling Allison too? Mom? Just casually give us all a fucking heart attack with your lies?” 

“I’m not lying, Diego” 

“You’re not?” 

“Wish I was” 

“Klaus, Luther is fine” Diego says, slowly, and this time he looks almost defeated, worried beyond measure. “He’s- he’s fine, the fucking idiot is going to space like he always wanted. Didn't you watch the news this morning? He’s fine” 

Klaus looks up at him. “You honestly believe that, Diego?” 

Diego holds his gaze. 

For the first time, there’s a hint of doubt in his eyes. 

Not for long, though. “You’re getting sober” he says, out of nowhere, raging. “I’m fucking sick of you pulling shit like this. You’re- _rehab_. You’re fucking going to rehab again- and it better fucking stick this time, Klaus” 

Klaus clenches his jaw, balls up his hands into fists. “Or what, Diego? Huh? What’re you gonna do? You gonna go crying to Daddy?” a breath, an expression that can only be described as snarling. “Or maybe your girlfriend? I bet she’s gonna be _real_ happy to-” 

“Shut up!” 

“You shut up!” 

“Klaus, for god’s-” Diego breathes in, pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks angry, angry, angry. “You know what, Klaus?” he says, very carefully. “The shrink told Vanya you’re not fit to make major choices by yourself in the foreseeable future- he thinks it’d be best if your _next of kin_ make them for you. Guess who’s your fucking next of kin, asshole?” 

Klaus’ eyes widen. 

“That’s right,” Diego says. “You’re going to fucking rehab” 

“Diego!” Klaus shrieks. “What the-” 

Diego smiles, big and bitter. It looks downright scary, with the swollen eye. “Good fucking riddance” 

_“Diego-!”_

But Diego is halfway through the door, his footsteps booming, echoing. 

Vanya stands there for all of seconds before shuffling awkwardly after him, grimacing. She shoots Klaus an apologetic look before leaving. “I’m just gonna- yeah, just-” 

And she’s gone, too. 

Klaus groans loudly. 

Bangs the back of his head against the headboard three times in a row. Then he’s- 

He yanks the IV that was giving him fluids out of his wrist with a rough movement, a single drop of blood trickling down. Then he stands up. Wobbles. Finds his footing. Drags himself towards the chair where Vanya piled both her stuff and Klaus’ when the staff returned it- minus his drugs, of course. 

Just a pile of clothes, and some trinkets. 

He grabs his leather pants, squeezes one leg in- 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ben shrieks, and Klaus jumps just about half a foot in the air, before turning around to face them with wild eyes. 

Startled, mildly stunned. 

Ben rolls his eyes, but Luther thinks he can see the relief in them too. 

Klaus can see them now. The pills wore off. 

“ _What the fuck?_ ” Klaus yelps, after a moment. “How long have you been standing there, you goddamned voyeur freaks? Didn’t our mother teach you not to barge in unannounced?” 

“We’ve been here the whole time” 

“Have you, though?” Klaus starts, distractedly, going back to squeezing his pants over his legs and then moving on to his boots. “Have you, really?” 

“Yes, Klaus” Ben says, carefully. “We’ve-” 

Klaus puts on his shirt, his jacket. Then he starts poking at Vanya’s coat and- 

_“Klaus-”_ Luther whines, scoffing. 

Her wallet. 

There are two fives and a twenty. He grabs them both. 

He steps towards the door and out of the room, walking through the hallways, keeping his head down. It’s probably useless, that he tries not to draw too much attention- he looks wildly out of place, no matter how much he attempts to appear like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. 

“Klaus, what the hell are you doing?” Ben hisses, following after him. 

Klaus doesn’t even slow down to reply. “What does it look like I’m doing?” 

It looks like Klaus is making a run for it. 

Ben groans. 

Luther sighs, breathes out. 

“Just-” Ben starts. “Think about it, would you? Diego’s being a dick, I _know._ But he’s-” 

_“I’m not going to rehab”_

Blurted. 

A little too loud. 

A kid sitting in the floor by a shut door snaps her eyes towards him, stares at him with a frightened expression on her face. Klaus smiles something that could be described as charming but also as manic. 

Then he ducks into a hallway, deserted. A hushed whisper so no one but them will hear, “I’m not going back to fucking rehab, Ben. I don’t care if Diego’s being a dick or not, I’m just- I'm not going back” 

Ben stares at him. 

He stares at Ben. 

It’s long, and almost painful, another silent conversation. There’s an argument, there, and Luther’s not sure which one of them winds up winning. 

“They don’t believe you about Luther,” Ben finally says, after a long moment. “What happens in ten or _twenty_ years when- I don’t know, when Pogo dies or something, and everyone goes back to the house and realize you were right? What happens then?” 

Klaus looks away, shrugs. 

“They’re going to hate you, Klaus” Ben says, softly. “They’re going to hate themselves” 

But Klaus swallows, sets his jaw. “That’s their problem, Benny. Not mine” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I photoshop a heart shaped pendant into Eden Cupid's picture in my weird and totally unnecessary magazine edit because I figured 15yo Allison would literally never take that thing off? Why, yes, thanks for noticing.


	10. Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for [Sharpworksamurai](/users/Sharpworksamurai/pseuds/Sharpworksamurai) whose comment last week made remember this thing exists ❤️ ily

It’s not snowing. 

Not yet, anyway. 

The sky looks menacing, though, all black clouds and cold hues. Luther stares at it and doesn’t really feel much of anything but a vague sense of relief at not being able to feel the cold, the wind. 

Klaus shivers beside him, wrapping his arms around himself as he walks in a futile attempt to keep some semblance of warmth. He looks downright miserable. 

“Klaus,” Ben says, for what might as well be the eighth time in a row. “Klaus, c’mon, don’t-” 

But Klaus doesn’t listen. 

He keeps walking and walking, his eyes stubbornly glued to the ground. 

He must be freezing, Luther decides. He’s only wearing his flimsily jacket- and the thing ’s probably more of an accessory than something actually meant to keep him warm. His shirt’s so thin it’s almost translucent. 

He must be freezing. 

“Klaus!” Ben keeps saying, and Luther’s just now beginning to understand Ben can be just as stubborn as Klaus is. He never would’ve guessed. “Don’t be so- _can you stop?_ ” 

Klaus doesn’t stop. 

He keeps walking. 

“Where the hell are you even going?” 

Klaus does react, to that. He smiles something twisted. “Where do you think?” 

Now- Luther doesn’t know where it is, that Klaus wants to go, but judging by the way Ben groans exasperatedly, rolls his eyes, it can’t be anywhere good. “Uh, Klaus?” Luther starts, awkwardly, so very awkwardly, because he- he doesn’t know where he stands anymore, with them, with life, with death, or whatever. He eyes the clouded skies warily. “This might be a good time to go home” 

And Klaus freezes, looks at him with such wide, _vulnerable_ eyes- 

It only lasts a second. 

Klaus laughs, keeps walking. “Shut up, Luther” he says, through gritted teeth. His voice comes out low, and jagged. There’s a warning, there. 

Luther shuts up. 

* 

Turns out, Klaus wanted to go meet with his dealer. 

Which- isn't exactly surprising, all things considered, but Luther still watches from afar, stubbornly refusing to go anywhere near the hooded figure standing in a corner, shielded from the wind and the cold by the tented roof in the entrance of some long-abandoned store. He watches from afar and wishes he could do something, and wonders if he could, and decides he never could before, so what’s the point in trying now, anyway? 

Klaus goes up to the figure, mutters and mutters and mutters, and by the time he walks back up to Luther and Ben, he’s holding a little plastic bag with an array of pills. 

Luther doesn’t have it in him to feel disappointed anymore. 

He just wants- 

He doesn’t know what he wants. 

Ben looks at the baggie with what has to be a long-practiced indifference, only the tiniest hints of annoyance making their way into the edges of his expression. “Happy now?” 

“Oh, very” Klaus says, opening the thing up with desperate movements, pouring a number of pills into his open palm, and then swallowing them up. 

It doesn’t seem like he enjoys it the sightless. 

He’s shaking. 

No one comments on it. 

Luther coughs, clears his throat. “Uh, so- now what?” 

Klaus sighs, smiles a wide smile that looks like it might turn into a grimace without warning. “Now, _mon frère_ , now we pretend the past two nights didn’t happen at all” and he claps, looks around the street-there's an edge to him, something in his eyes that screams he’s not all right. “You’re very welcome to join sweet Ben and I in our journeys, but I’m sure you’re gonna want to go haunt Dad and lurk around his office all day long like a creep or something, so do what you will” 

“Klaus,” Ben starts, as a warning. 

But Klaus carries on, tone high and nearly jagged. “No, seriously, _seriously_ , I mean it. Why would you wanna hang out with the junkie and the dead kid? Diego and the happy bunch are never gonna believe me, so just go live your life- _death_ , whatever” 

Luther stares, breathes out very slowly. 

Ben sighs, and looks away, and Klaus doesn’t falter in the slightest. 

"Just _go_ , Luther” 

Luther- 

He stares, and he wonders, and he recognizes perfectly Klaus is hurt and is upset, and is doing the one thing the Hargreeves know how to do- retreating, running away, curling up in a corner away from the world and rejecting everything and everyone until things feel a little less sharp and jagged. 

But he listens to Klaus’s words, and he thinks back on Vanya’s book, her thoughts, her opinions, her very own hurt, and the he thinks back on all those magazines and papers, and- 

Klaus is right, isn’t he? 

That’s what he would do, what his brothers and his sisters and the world would expect him to do. 

To go away. 

To retreat, and hide, and call them a mean name to their face just to avoid dealing with the problem. Number One would never hang out with the junkie and the dead kid- not now, anyway, now that’s there’s nothing he can get out of it, because he’s supposed to be better, greater than everyone else is. 

He’s supposed to be better. 

_(-he’s not)_. 

And it hurts him, and it upsets him, and he doesn’t know what to do. 

“So?” Klaus says, and it’s way too soon for the pills he took to have kicked in yet, but there’s an unnatural edge to his movements and his expression all the same. 

“Klaus, can you stop being an asshole for one second?” Ben says, with no heat. 

“What? You wanna go, too?” Klaus spits, riled up all of the sudden. “You’re absolutely right, Ben. Now there’s another brother for you to nag all day long so why don’t you go ahead and stick with him, huh? Bet Daddy would go crazy happy if he knew _two_ of his little experiments watch him crap everyday” 

_“Klaus-”_

“No,” Klaus says, “I’m-” and he shakes his head, takes a couple steps back away from them. “You’re just like them, the both of you. If- if it was someone else neither one of you would’ve believed me either, and I don’t- _I can’t-_ ” 

He stops. 

He takes a deep breath, something shaky that might as well be a sob. 

“Klaus,” Luther says, before he even knows what he wants to say. “I- I don’t-” Klaus looks up at him, eyes wide and afraid, like maybe he’s looking for guidance in him, in his brother, in his family. “I’m not going anywhere, Klaus” he says, slow, and steady, true. “I’m- I’m sorry, you’re right” and he looks at Ben and all he feels is shame. “I wouldn’t have believed you either, I’m sorry, I’m- you deserve better, you’ve always deserved better” 

Klaus looks up at him, and there’s hurt, in his eyes, but there’s also a glimmer of something else, and Luther can’t help but wonder just how long he’s waited for someone to say what he just said to him. To say, _you’re right, you’re right, you’re not lying, you’re not deceitful and cruel, you don’t enjoy other people’s suffering, you’re more than what they peg you to be, you’re right-_

Klaus takes another deep breath, and he nods, minutely, barely there. 

Ben makes a sort of aborted movement, reaching for Klaus and stopping himself in the last second, no doubt remembering it really wouldn’t do good to try and touch only to fail. 

Luther breathes out, lets a couple seconds go by. “Now what?” 

* 

They wander around the streets, walking and walking and walking. 

There are posters, wherever they go, billboards all around, announcing that same stupid headline _(Spaceboy goes to space!)_ and it might all be in Luther’s head, but it really seems like the entire city is talking about it. 

Klaus ducks into a quiet little bar, and its screens are playing Dad’s speech about him on a loop- and really, it only takes three or four repetitions before they’re all storming out. Then they walk past a convenience store and its glass doors are covered top to bottom with a strange poster that features some old photo of him edited into a spacesuit, smiling at the camera- _(Spaceboy, the first boy in space!)._ People mutter, in the streets, pointing, and nodding along. 

_“Spaceboy? I hadn’t heard-”_

_“Oh, man, the Umbrella Academy!”_

_“I thought they stopped-”_

_“This the best thing I’ve heard in-”_

_“No, Number One was the one who-”_

Wherever they go, people are talking about him, about the academy. 

It’s- 

It brings him back to a time when that was just the way things were, when absolutely _everyone_ talked about them, all day, every day. Which, was- _good_. Definitely good, in the grand scheme of things, but also not exactly the best. Luther- enjoyed it, sure, why wouldn’t he have enjoyed it? There’s no good reason. It’d be selfish of him not to have enjoyed it. But- 

It got to be a little too much, sometimes. 

Sometimes- 

_Sometimes-_

Sometimes, he wishes they could’ve grown up differently. If not for his sake then for his siblings’. Because- he was the leader, he was strong, the eldest in everything but fact, and he- could handle those things that came with fame and weren't all that great, like not being able to even look out of the window without a reporter shoving a camera on his face and writing an article about it, or- or being questioned for everything he did, being told he was irremediably wrong or irremediably right. He was strong. He could handle it. 

But the rest- 

Allison would _drown_ in it, for some reason, and then Klaus always knew how to put up a good show for the press, but- 

_Ben?_

_Diego?_

Even Five, in those few years he was around for the fame? 

They- 

They didn’t love it. 

_(-and maybe Luther didn’t really love it, either, but-)_

He looks around at the papers and the billboards, the magazines, the people talking and talking and talking away, and he- 

He feels like a little kid, ducking his head and dreading the next interview. 

Except, except, this one time he’s not a little kid, and it’s not the Umbrella Academy people are talking about, it’s him, it’s him, and he’s not- 

He's not that person, he’s not Spaceboy anymore, he’s not Number One, and he’s not going on a heroic mission to protect people from harm, he’s not a hero, he’s not who they believe him to be. 

He’s just a dead guy, faceless, middles, he’s just a dead guy and he had to wait until his chest was dripping with blood and guts to even _consider_ going out of his father’s house and now he’s just a dead guy who can’t even be there for his brother, who can’t even _try_ and help him, keep him away from his poison, who made everything worse. 

Sometime in the afternoon, things get weird. 

They pass next to a newspaper stand, and there they are, all the headlines he’s come to expect. But then, there’s a new one, some off-brand local paper- 

_Umbrella Academy’s the Séance: Suicide Attempt. Brought on by Spaceboy’s Mission?_

Klaus spots it and blinks up at it with a stupefied expression on his face. 

It comes with a picture. 

Clearly taken through the one window of Klaus’ hospital room, featuring him front and center, laying on the bed, Diego standing right in front of him, yelling, pointing a finger. Half of Vanya’s head is obscuring part of the picture. 

Diego’s tattoo is very, _very_ visible. 

The stand’s seller looks up from his cup of coffee when he notice’s Klaus has been lurking for way too much time, squints at him. “Hey, aren’t ya that Umbrella kid?” 

Klaus sighs, looks up at the sky. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @myeyesarenotblue


End file.
